


it's imperfect, it's not forever. you're still patient

by mismatched (miscalculated)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, a lot of music is mentioned lmao, a mention of previous jihoon/seungcheol, all non-seventeen characters are made up, fuck it silver-haired jihoon, intra-seventeen relationships arent all happy, jihoon is jaded about idol life, seventeen is a seven person group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscalculated/pseuds/mismatched
Summary: Jihoon and his bandmates are on the last leg of their American tour in Los Angeles; Hansol is the skateboarding music enthusiast that, even if only for one week, makes Jihoon forget who he is.*“We can rush,” Jihoon says, low. “Squeeze a year into a week.” He glances up at Hansol. “You already asked me to stay.”“I did, didn’t I,” Hansol parrots himself from earlier in the morning. “A year into a week. I like that.”
Relationships: Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 36
Kudos: 156





	1. We only yesterday were worlds apart

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song Cola by Toro y Moi. 
> 
> I've always wanted to write about the musical-duo bros Jihoon and Hansol, so I finally got off my ass and got to work. Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Los Angeles/Venice Beach has a lot of fictional adjustments to it, because I do not know the city and will not claim to. 
> 
> * Heed the heads-up in the tags: there are talks about the negative side of the industry, the bandmates aren't all besties/bros behind the scenes, jaded Jihoon, etc. Nothing written in this story is meant to reference or speculate on Seventeen's real-world relationships or personalities. I'll add warnings to all chapters if there's something specific I need to mention.

Jeon Young-hwan, their manager, doesn’t let them have a chance to fully decompress after their concert at the LA Forum before he’s rattling off the itinerary for their remaining time in Los Angeles. He has the band gather in Seungcheol’s hotel room, each man freshly showered and exhausted. “The concert may be over,” he’s saying. “But we still have other responsibilities here. Tomorrow we need to be up at 5 a.m. for an interview with Seventeen magazine.” Jihoon and his bandmates — Seungcheol, Chan, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Joshua and Jeonghan — sit listlessly on the two beds, listening to the seemingly endless list. 

“It’s 2 a.m.,” Soonyoung raises his hand to say, as if stating this fact would change anything. His members don’t even bother to look at him, keeping their eyes focused everywhere but at Young-Hwan. 

Young-Hwan pauses, an eyebrow raising. “Yes it is, in fact, 2 a.m. Thank you for that, Soonyoung.” Seokmin gathers enough energy to huff a laugh. 

Soonyoung, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, his bleach blonde hair damp and clinging to his skin, deflates. “That’s 3 hours… Can we at least get to hair and makeup by 6 a.m.? Then we can have a little extra sleep?” 

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “The interview is at 7, Soonyoung. That’s one hour to get our hair and makeup done, get breakfast, and drive to the studio.”

“You can sleep in the car,” Young-Hwan says with a shrug. “I don’t care. Just be up and ready to go.” 

Soonyoung returns to staring into space. 

“Besides,” Young-Hwan persists. “Once we get everything done you guys are free to explore the city for a week. We can go to Venice beach… cheat on your diets with some street food… go shopping for souvenirs? Anybody?” 

No one says anything. Jihoon is concentrating hard on his fingernails. 

“Alright,” their manager says with a sigh. “I know. We’re  _ all _ tired and have to get up in 3 hours. Get some rest and I’ll be back in a few.” He closes the cover on the iPad he’s holding and turns to go. 

“You’re not the one that had a two hour concert,” Jeonghan mutters under his breath, loud enough for only his bandmates to catch it, before he stands and starts to leave for his own room. “C’mon, Chan. Get off dear leader’s bed before he flips.” Chan does as he’s told, rubs at the bags under his eyes. 

Seungcheol grumbles. “I just didn’t want his hair to drip onto my pillow, you sarcastic fuck.” 

The group disperses, and Jihoon returns to his own hotel room and flops down on the bed — thankfully, he won a fierce game of rock paper scissors and now has a room to himself. A room that he’s already committed himself to staying in for the entire week they’re “free”. Unlike the others, he’s not interested in exploring strange cities and eating foreign food, prefers his solitude, phone in hand, music blasting. 

Seventeen’s American tour has been an exhausting whirlwind of long flights, longer car rides, hours and hours of practicing and hair and makeup and trying to pretend that they have an infinite amount of energy for their fans. They started at the east coast, slowly moved across the country until they reached their final destination: Los Angeles, California. It’s the location that, before they even departed from Korea, Soonyoung was most excited to visit. Then the hell that is touring began, and with each concert Soonyoung’s pep dissolved more and more; by the time they got through their 9th of 10 concerts, he’d become an empty husk. He didn’t even attempt to look happy when they landed in California. 

Tours always bring out the worst in them. As hungry and tired as they are, anything sets them off; from Seokmin talking a little too loudly in the car, to Seungcheol mistakenly stepping on Jeonghan’s toes. Even Jihoon got into it with Chan when Chan made a dismissive comment about Jihoon only wanting to leave the hotel if food is involved — and Jihoon’s not an argumentative person. At least, not vocally; if he’s upset, he usually falls silent for an undetermined amount of time. 

Chan’s not exactly his favorite person, anyway. He’s had to hold back many-a grimaces when Chan would drape his arms over Jihoon for the cameras, beaming brightly as he says, “And we wouldn’t be able to do it without our Woozi hyung; he is the backbone of Seventeen!” Chan never calls him ‘hyung’ if there isn’t a camera involved. 

Jihoon tries not to think too hard about how much of his formative years has gone to the band. It doesn’t solve anything, and it won’t get him out of his ten year contract any faster. He prefers to think of it as his new normal; while other kids went to school, prepared for the suneung and therefore their future careers, Jihoon was balancing trainee life and lessons from teachers that came to the dormitories. He’s being worked like a dog, yes, but it’s for the greater good — right? To someday become a composer and not have to do this idol shit ever again. Then there’s the dating ban that could sink his entire career if he slipped up, but Jihoon’s been pretty damn good at sneaking out to fuck. There was a stretch of time that he and Seungcheol had an… arrangement of sorts, getting each other off so that they didn’t have to go through the pain of secretly meeting up with other idols. 

But that was two years ago. They’re over it now. Jihoon’s back to the old song and dance, corresponding with other bands through hidden Instagram accounts. And if it weren’t for the fact that he’s in America and not Korea, he’d probably be doing that instead of sleeping. He’s gone a full day without sleep several times; he can do it again. 

This isn’t to say that he doesn’t enjoy  _ any _ of idol life. There are a lot of good moments, too: winning music shows, getting awards, the sea of fans that cry when he so much as looks at them. It’s just that he’s been doing this for half his life now (a sizable portion of that as a trainee), and as the years peel by the reasons he dislikes it begins to stack up, surpasses all the good. 

_ It’ll be different once tour is over _ , Jihoon thinks. He always wants to quit when they’re constantly performing. But when the dust has settled and they’re back to preparing for their next comeback, he’ll cool down a lot. He’ll be Woozi again, the ‘genius producer’ that puts on silly hats and smiles for the cameras. 

* * *

The Seventeen interview goes swimmingly. Joshua, bless his soul, has to do the most talking and translating, but the other members try their best to say whatever they can to reduce his workload. Seokmin and Soonyoung are back to their exuberant, comedic selves, the two stooges, and they make the producer and camera team laugh frequently. Jeonghan cracks a few jokes himself, Seungcheol does that giggle that warms the soul, Jihoon parrots whatever English phrases Joshua says to fill the dead air. 

“Why the name seventeen?” the producer asks them, and Joshua rattles off the answer —  _ there’s seven of us and we were teenagers when we debuted. Now ‘teen’ stands for our fresh, young sound _ — as if rehearsed. Really, they’ve been asked that question too many times to count. 

Later that day there’s another interview with another magazine. They have them pick a card and do whatever it says; the members pretend to be amazed and enthralled whenever one of them performs said request. Jihoon does a lot of thumbs ups. 

“He’s the brother I never had,” Jihoon’s saying, on another day at another interview, this time with the local news channel. He’s patting Seokmin on the back as he says it. “And I’m thankful to have met him.” Joshua translates for the interviewer, and the crowd  _ aww _ s when Seokmin leans his head on Jihoon’s shoulder, doing that big, toothy smile he does when he knows he has to. 

Their final day of PR is spent having to hug one another — Jihoon’s least favorite task — and spit out whatever compliments they can think of. Jihoon gets paired up with Soonyoung. “His blonde…. hair… is very — nice,” he says in shaky English. Soonyoung laughs, eyes crescent moons, and lifts Jihoon up by where his arms are wrapped around his middle. 

It’s 10 p.m. when they’re on the van ride back to their hotel; dinner was provided to them by an on-site food truck. “Good job boys,” Young-hwan calls back to them from the driver’s seat. Jeonghan is fast asleep in the passenger seat. “As promised, you guys have the next week to yourselves. If you want to film a quick little vlog for the channel, I’d strongly encourage you to do so.” 

“So what you’re saying is that we  _ don’t _ actually have the week to ourselves,” Seungcheol says from the seat behind Young-hwan. Seokmin, Soonyoung, and Chan burst into laughter. 

“You do,” Young-hwan insists. “I’m not asking for much. Just a short little vlog of you guys shopping, eating, whatever you want. Just to give the fans something. Then you’re really done, I promise.” 

Chan closes his eyes and leans against the window, arms crossed. “We all know who is and isn’t going to show their faces on a vlog.” 

Jihoon has lived with Chan for way too long to not understand that it’s a dig at him. “You can say it directly without being passive-aggressive,” he returns from the seat adjacent to Chan. 

“All I’m saying is that we  _ all _ need to put in effort,” Chan says, eyes still closed. “And not have the same people on the vlog every time.” 

Seungcheol lets out a loud groan. “Guys,  _ please _ don’t do this right now. C’mon. It’s fine — Joshua and I already planned to go to the beach, so we can film us swimming and playing around or something. Conversation over.” 

“Yes, dear leader,” Chan chants. He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. Thank fucking god. 

Jihoon turns to look out at the palm trees, stares until they turn into a mess of green and browns. 

* * *

Purely to spite Chan, Jihoon  _ does _ , in fact, leave his hotel room on the first day of “freedom”. His body is accustomed to waking up at the crack of dawn, so instead of going back to sleep, Jihoon goes ahead and takes his shower, brushes his teeth, and puts on an inconspicuous outfit: a black tee with a depiction of a tiger on the back — you’re welcome, Soonyoung — a pair of black Adidas joggers, black sandals, and a black face mask. He’s pretty sure they’re not well known enough in the states for him to have to hide, but it’s just in case. 

He takes the elevator down to get breakfast. Joshua and Seungcheol are already in the hotel’s dining room eating, Joshua holding up a camera and talking, his eyes on the viewfinder. Jihoon walks up and pops behind him, also watches himself in the viewfinder as he puts both hands on Joshua’s shoulders. 

“Woozi is here,” Joshua cheers, leaning his head back onto Jihoon without looking away from the camera. “Good morning!” 

Seungcheol, mouth full of cereal, says, “I can’t believe he’s up before 8 a.m.” 

Jihoon shoves Seungcheol, who giggles and ducks away. “Well, you better believe it, because I’m up,” he says, then turns back to the camera. “I’m going to get some breakfast and go walk around the boardwalk.” He does a thumbs up, smile tight. 

Joshua cranes his neck back to look at Jihoon. “Do you wanna come with us to the beach? It’s not too late to go get your swim trunks.” 

Jihoon shakes his head no. “I’d rather not. But, we can meet up later for lunch if you guys are still out there.” 

“Okay, sounds good,” Joshua says. “Have a good time on the boardwalk.” 

“Get some good footage of the ocean,” are Jihoon’s departing words. Both men wave at him as he moves towards the buffet. 

  
  
  
  


Los Angeles is hot, hotter than any summer he’s spent in Korea. The boardwalk is crowded, the beach off to the right even more so. And there’s a seemingly endless row of tall, skinny palm trees that act as line of demarcation between the sand and the sidewalk. Jihoon, following the groups of people that are walking on the right side of the boardwalk, uses his phone to snap pictures of the cloudless, blue skies, the palm trees, the tourists. He’s already sweating — his all-black clothes aren’t helping any — so he tugs his face mask down and under his chin. 

It’s not bad… but it’s not necessarily fun, either. He has to keep weaving and bobbing to get around the slow walkers or those that are just standing and blocking the way. That, and he can’t understand anything that people are saying; he speaks very little English, even less Spanish. He can read the restaurant or store signs if he  _ really _ puts his mind to it — but other than that, nothing. Nada. There are vendors that keep calling out to him, trying to tell him something or shove an advertisement into his hand, and he, not understanding them, will say, “Sorry, sorry,” in English, bowing awkwardly as he keeps on walking. 

He takes the time to look out at the vast expanse of the blue, blue ocean. He can’t remember the last time he’d been able to go to a beach. Their studio and dormitories are nowhere near a body of water, and even if they were, their manager probably wouldn’t let them go. After snapping a couple of pictures and putting his bare feet in the sand, commemorating the moment, he wanders off towards the shops. 

Luckily, there’s more shade in the shopping area. He tries to stay under it as much as possible while he surveys the touristy stores, with their broad assortment of Venice beach merchandise. A cacophony of different types of music is playing all around him; even louder, there is the chatter of the shoppers. Jihoon walks and walks until he’s  _ really _ burning up, knows his manager won’t be too happy with him if he tans. He has to get out of the sun. 

Eventually he’s walked long enough that the shops around him aren’t particularly touristy anymore. There’s piercing parlors, places advertising CBD oils and vapes, vintage-style clothing stores, then the more familiar stores: Urban Outfitters, H&M, whatever. He ends up in front of one with skateboards sitting at the window. The mannequins are dressed in graphic tees, Vans, Thrasher sweatshirts, chains hanging from their shorts. Jihoon’s always wanted a skateboard. Not like he’ll have much of any time to actually use it — but a little window shopping never hurt anybody. 

It’s deliciously cold when he pulls the glass door open and steps inside. A rock song that Jihoon definitely doesn’t know is playing through the speakers. The store is dark and too cramped, honestly. It looks like they’ve tried to fit as many items as possible: racks of skater clothes with little room to walk through, every inch of the walls covered with sneakers, longboards, skateboards, and roller blades; candy and trinkets at the cashier. 

“Welcome in,” the woman behind the desk says to him. He can understand that much. She’s bald, but the little hair she has is a green color. And she’s got a lip piercing, several piercings in her ears, and is covered in tattoos. Jihoon tries not to stare too long, instead says a weak  _ thank you _ and turns away. He rarely sees people like her in South Korea. At least, not in the places he’s been. 

Jihoon starts perusing the store, fingering the sweatshirts, tempted to buy a white Thrasher one with the fire and shit just because it looks cool. He knows Soonyoung would like one, too. Fuck it. He picks up an orange sweatshirt and then the white one — Soonyoung better be fucking grateful. He holds them by the hanger, moves over to the wall of skateboards and cranes his neck back to examine the art on each one, mouth ajar in awe. 

They’re all so fucking sick. A green dragon on one, a naked girl with her face melting on another. He’s staring particularly hard at one with palm trees on it, so badly tempted to buy it purely because he likes the stylistic curves of the leaves, the trunks. He’s no stranger to making stupid purchases, never learns his lesson.  _ I’ll find the time to ride it _ , Jihoon thinks. But he doesn’t know how… and if he tries to practice and falls and hurts himself, his manager is going to be furious. Furious isn’t even the word. 

The woman from behind the counter steps up beside him as he’s having his internal debate, points at one of the skateboards and starts saying something. Something that he cannot understand a single word of. He snaps out of his trance to look at her, panic shooting down his spine. She’s smiling, her eyes friendly and warm as she talks, not noticing the confused stare on his face. 

“Sorry,” he tries. “I… no…” How does he say he can’t speak English? Or that he doesn’t understand? Why did he not suck it up and go to the beach with naitve-speaker Joshua?

“Vic.” A man materializes from behind a rack of clothes. He’s wearing a loud, neon green beanie, tufts of burnt orange hair poking up from underneath. His tie dye shirt is two sizes too big for him, but it seems purposeful, the way half of it is tucked into his tan cargo shorts, the other half hanging free. His shoes are white, high-top Converses. “Where did you put my bottle? It’s not back there.” 

Vic(?), thank god, turns away from Jihoon to regard Neon Green Beanie. “It should be back there in your locker. Did you check it?”

Neon Green Beanie shoots her a look. “Did I check my own locker? Of course I did.” 

“I don’t know then,” Vic says. “It should’ve been in that room somewhere.” She turns to Jihoon, says something else to him. Her voice rises on the end, as if it were a question. Fuck. 

“I…” He tries again. “No English?” 

Vic blinks, pauses. Then, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. That much he understands. “I had no idea. Um… what language?” She asks the question slowly. 

“Korean,” Jihoon says. “Sorry.” 

“No, no,  _ I’m _ sorry,” Vic says. “I — um — I’ll be over there.” She points to the cashier. “Okay?” She makes the OK sign with her hand. 

Jihoon nods. “Thank you.” 

Vic turns away, says to Neon Green Beanie as she gets back to the desk, “I’ll look for it after my shift, alright? No one stole your dingy water bottle.” 

“Never said anyone did,” Neon Green Beanie says. “I don’t want to lose the stickers on it, especially the Dreamville one.” Vic doesn’t answer. 

Then Neon Green Beanie meets Jihoon’s eyes. The look of annoyance on his face softens, and he approaches Jihoon. His outfit is, well, unique, but it works for him, Jihoon decides. Looks cool, even. “Hey,” the guy greets him in fluent-sounding Korean, low and almost missed under the rock music playing. “I’m not working today, but I can help you out.” He sounds native. 

Jihoon stares at him. Realizes many seconds too late that he actually understood what the guy said to him. “Woah,” he says. “You speak Korean?” 

“I  _ am _ Korean,” the guy states. “Hansol. Well — everyone here calls me Vernon. But Hansol is fine, too.” 

Hansol — Vernon — doesn’t look full Korean. Jihoon, upon closer inspection, notices that he’s at least partly white. He’s a very handsome mix of features from both sides, with eyes that seem to stare right into Jihoon’s soul. “You’re from Korea?” he asks. 

Hansol laughs, a rumble. And it lights his entire face up, his teeth perfectly white and straight. “Can I get your name before the interrogation, please?” He says it good-naturedly. 

Jihoon feels his face get hot. “I’m sorry. I’m, um —“ He almost says his stage name, remembers where he is, that right now he’s not Woozi. “Lee Jihoon.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty-three. You?” 

Hansol’s face lights up again. “Me, too!” He gives Jihoon’s arm a gentle shove as he says it, and Jihoon gives a smile in return. It’s so casual for someone he’s just met. “Anyways, I, uh, I was born in New York, but I moved to Korea when I was 5. I was there for, like, 12? Years. Then I came back for college. And now I’m here.” He raises his hands as if to say,  _ ta-dah _ . 

Jihoon nods, processing it. 

“What about you?” Hansol asks. “What brings you to Cali? Vacation?” 

“I wish,” Jihoon says. “I’m here for work.” 

Hansol raises one eyebrow. “What kinda work?” 

“Idol work. I’m in a band. K-pop. Have you heard of Seventeen?” The blank look he gets from Hansol answers that question. “Okay. Well, we’re on tour. Los Angeles was our final stop, so I have a week to myself.” 

Hansol hums. “Ahhh, K-pop idol — I see it now. You don’t see too many Koreans around here with dyed hair.” He reaches up, gently lifts a tuft of Jihoon’s silver-grey hair, lets it fall back down. Again, very casual. “I don’t really listen to K-pop. The Korean artists ‘m into are DPR LIVE, Crush, Dean. 88rising — but only, like one of them is Korean. Heard of any of it?” 

“Crush and Dean, yes,” Jihoon says. “No to the rest.”

“I can get you into some sick shit,” Hansol says. “You said you have a free week?” 

Jihoon doesn’t answer right away. He looks between Hansol’s brown eyes, eyes light enough for him to see his pupils clearly. “A week, yeah.” 

“Alright,” Hansol starts. He looks up at the wall of skateboards, and Jihoon lets himself stare at the profile of his face for a little while longer before he follows Hansol’s gaze. “You wanted to buy a skateboard, right?” 

“I do,” Jihoon’s voice falters. “The one with the palm trees. But I don’t know how to ride one… and my manager will kick my ass if I get hurt trying.” 

Hansol holds his own chin between his index and thumb finger and squints as if thinking. “That’s a tough one. Idols have to look all pristine and shit.” Jihoon huffs out a laugh at this. “How about… you get the skateboard, and I can teach you some basic stuff. I can stay close to you the entire time so if you fall I can catch you. Or break your fall. Whichever comes first.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Jihoon waves his hand at him. “I don’t want you to waste your time on me. Or risk hurting yourself for a stranger.” But it’s a sweet offer, one that has Jihoon’s ears turning red, heart skipping a beat. His weak spot has always been pretty boys, the idols he’s slept with a testament to that. 

“It won’t be a waste of time,” he says in a drawl, eyes wide and both eyebrows rising, like Jihoon just said something ridiculous. “That’s crazy talk. It’ll be awesome. I can play all the kick-ass music you’re missing out on and we can go test out your new baby at this skate park I know. If you’re not busy, of course, Seventeen member Jihoon-ssi.” 

Jihoon laughs and shakes his head, shoving Hansol on his arm, not pulling away when Hansol catches his wrist. He starts to tell him something —  _ no, I’m not busy, I already told you my week is open _ — but it gets trapped in his throat when he looks at Hansol, and Hansol is looking at him, the remnants of a smile on his face, unmoving, fingers still around his wrist. And he can hear his heartbeat between his ears, can feel the skin on his arms prickling with goosebumps. 

“I’m heavier than I look,” is what eventually comes out of his mouth. 

* * *

It’s a little difficult to pay attention to what he’s doing when Jihoon’s brain has already decided he wants to fuck him. Hansol was flirting, there’s no way around that, and Jihoon can’t stop reeling, even as he stands shakily on the skateboard, Hansol’s palm on the small of his back. “You gotta kinda balance yourself,” Hansol is saying. “Put your foot there — yeah, good — and then you can use your other one to give you some momentum.” 

Jihoon bought the skateboard. Duh. Either Hansol is an incredible salesman, or he’s also into him. Jihoon wants to believe the latter. He couldn’t understand what Vic was saying when he and Hansol approached the cashier with the two sweatshirts and the skateboard, but he could see the look she shot Hansol, the  _ uh, huh, what are you up to? _ kind of look that friends give friends when they’re shooting their shot. Hansol never responded to what Vic said to him, only grinned and ducked his head, standing close enough to Jihoon that she couldn’t see the hand that was rubbing circles into the small of Jihoon’s back. 

The hand that’s currently on Jihoon, helping him to not teeter over. 

Thankfully, it’s early enough in the morning that there aren’t many people at the skatepark yet. So no one can see the embarrassing sight of Jihoon trying his best not to tumble, only competent enough to gain ground with his left foot. “I think it’s harder,” Hansol continues. “Because you’re wearing sandals. You need some sneakers.” 

Jihoon isn’t sure what to do with this information. “All my sneakers are in my hotel room. What size do you wear?” He can already tell, looking down at Hansol’s Converses, that they’re going to be too big. 

“8s,” Hansol says. When he sees the blank expression on Jihoon’s face, he says, “Sorry — that’s in American sizes. Ummm, 260. You?”

Yeah, too big. “240,” he sighs. “I should probably stop for now, then.” 

“So we don’t risk you falling,” Hansol confirms with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t even realize you were wearing sandals until we got out here.” 

Jihoon hops off, and Hansol tentatively removes his hand from the small of his back. “What about you?” Jihoon asks, hands now on his hips. “Can you show me some tricks?” 

Hansol suddenly looks a little shy, adjusts his hat and looks around as he says, “Right now?” 

“No better time than now. You look like you’ve been skateboarding for, like, all your life.” 

“10 years on and off,” Hansol says. “Probably more off than on. I’m a little rusty…” His voice falters when he sees Jihoon eyeing him in disbelief. “Okay, okay,” he laughs. “I haven’t been practicing anything fancy, so no promises. But if I show you, you have to show me some of your music, Mr. Idol.” 

Jihoon nods, “Fair enough. It’s a lot of pop, though; there’s a high chance you’re not gonna like it.” 

Hansol shrugs, already getting onto Jihoon’s skateboard. He hasn’t even moved yet and he looks like an expert. “I’m open-minded.” He orients himself sideways, his right foot forward, his left foot pushing himself off. “Here goes nothing,” he shouts. Jihoon watches him glide down the walkway, studies as he putsboth feet back on the board after he’s given himself enough momentum. 

Hansol starts to sway in an ’S’, tilting himself side to side as he moves. He curves back around and towards Jihoon, pushes off a little more with his left foot, then he’s dragging his forward-most foot up the curve of the board, knees slightly bent, and does a kick-flip. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s already way more than Jihoon can do; he lets out a little, “Woah,” clapping his hands together. 

“Wait, wait,” Hansol calls out to him. He glides past Jihoon, curves around again, and pushes off some more to get enough speed to hop up on the ledge of a short, brick wall, a 50-50 grind, and when he gets to the end of the wall he does another flip of the board in the air, lands back onto it and rolls away. 

“Woahh,” Jihoon exclaims while clapping, this time louder than the last. “And you said you were rusty! Such a liar.” 

Hansol’s got a dopey grin on his face, his nose and cheeks flushed red from the summer heat — it’s so endearing that Jihoon has to stop and stare. “I used to know how to do cooler stuff,” Hansol tells him. “But when you don’t use it, you lose it, as they say.” Jihoon continues to watch, enthralled, as Hansol does a few more tricks for him, ends his mini-show with showing Jihoon how to kick the skateboard around from on its back and hop onto it in one fell-swoop. Jihoon makes shocked  _ ohhh! _ s, clapping, mouth wide open in glee. 

“This is nothing special, trust me,” Hansol’s still got the dopey grin on his face. He gets off Jihoon’s board, picks it up by the front wheels. “If you stick around the skate park long enough you’ll see  _ way _ more impressive tricks.” 

Jihoon looks at him, his loud green beanie, the tie dye shirt billowing with each breeze, how his ears are now turning red. The sharp lines of his jaw, the straight strip of his nose-bridge. And the more he stares, the more Hansol looks Korean. It’s just taken Jihoon’s brain a little longer to make sense of it, not something he sees everyday. “That’s fine,” he says, voice coming out softer than intended. “You’re more than enough.” 

Hansol’s got the same half-smile stare that he had in the store, gaze shifting between each of Jihoon’s eyes. Jihoon sees him swallow. “Hey. So. I’ve got some nice speakers back at my place.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, in no particular direction. “It’s super close by. You can, like. Play me something off your album. Albums. If you’re cool with it?” 

Jihoon can feel the dumb grin spreading across his lips when he answers, still soft, “A deal’s a deal, right?” 

* * *

Hansol’s tiny LA apartment looks like it came straight out of a hippie’s wet dream. There are tarps in an assortment of loud colors hanging up in the living room, with pastel couches, neon bean bags, plants hanging off the ceiling. There’s at least one candle on every table, a diffuser sitting on the chipped-up coffee table. A litter of Doc Martens, platform shoes, Vans, whatever else brands Jihoon saw in the store at the foyer. Jihoon eyes a pair of stilettos as he kicks off his own sandals, says, “You into some freaky shit?” to it. 

Hansol follows Jihoon’s eyes to the stilettos, laughs as if noticing it for the first time and says, “Nah, I’m afraid not that kinda stuff. It’s my roommate’s. She loves tall heels.” He tugs his Converses off, revealing white socks that say  _ Thrasher _ on it. “You can leave your clothes and skateboard here.” 

Jihoon does as he’s told, tears his eyes away from the stilettos to examine what he can see of the living room and kitchen. It smells like a calming mix of vanilla and mint. “She decorated the place, or you?” 

“A collaboration,” Hansol says. “We have the same kinda tastes, so it wasn’t too hard to come to a decision of what to buy. You want any water or anything?” 

Jihoon follows Hansol past the foyer, smiles at the crowded plant pots sitting on the kitchen counters. How they manage to cook with all that shit, he’ll never know. “Some water, please.” 

Hansol gets both of them a glass of water, and they polish them off in the kitchen. His mouth and throat thanks him as he gulps it down; he was so blinded by Hansol that he didn’t realize how thirsty he became. Then Hansol takes the empty glass from him, puts both in the sink. “My speakers are in my room. C’mon.” 

It is more obvious than ever that Hansol’s favorite color — pattern? — is tie dye. There are tarps up on his walls, too, blues and greens and reds. In the spaces between them, posters of musicians (bands?) Jihoon doesn’t know: Earth Gang, Mac Demarco, Steve Lacy, Toro y Moi. And his rug is a wild blend of maybe every color on the color wheel. The only thing that doesn’t have color in his room is his bed; the sheets and the duvet are white. 

Succulents on the window sill; cubbies stacked with comics, CDs, retro game consoles, vinyl records of modern-day artists. Anywhere from five to ten skateboards leaning up against the wall closest to his closet. A baby blue vinyl record player is in the only free corner, by the window. “Holy shit,” Jihoon says. It’s crowded, but in a homely, lived-in sort of way. “This is so cool.” 

Hansol doesn’t bother to fight the proud puff of his chest. “Thanks,” he says. “Fifteen plus years in the making.” He picks up two bean bags that were hiding on the other side of his bed and plops them down on the rug. “My speakers are wireless, so we can connect your iPhone, if you have one.” 

Jihoon fishes his phone out, and they sit on the red and blue bean bags. Hansol leans back in it as Jihoon plays their most recent album, one with a more EDM feel. He tries not to watch Hansol for his reaction while it plays, but he does take notice when Hansol whips his neon green beanie off of his head and shakes his burnt-orange hair out. It falls this way and that, like he just got out of bed, but it only adds to the vibe he’s going for. His roots are a dark brown. 

“It’s good,” Hansol tells him, nodding approvingly. “Do you guys make your own music?” 

“Our appeal is supposed to be that we’re self-producing idols,” Jihoon says. “I actually make the music — with the help of another producer from our company. Two of my other bandmates, Soonyoung and Chan, create our choreographies.” 

Hansol whistles. “You made this? That’s awesome, man.” Jihoon tries not to preen at the compliment. “How many people are in your band?” 

“Seven.” 

“I’m sure you get this a lot, but… why the name Seventeen?” 

“There’s seven of us, and we were teenagers when we debuted. Now ‘teen’ stands for our fresh, young sound,” Jihoon rattles off in his best interviewee voice, exaggerating it a little for effect. 

Hansol laughs with all his teeth, palms pressed to his belly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I can definitely see the K-pop idol thing now,” he wags a finger at him. “That’s insane, dude. You debuted when you guys were teenagers?” 

“Yeah. I was a trainee from, like… when I was twelve until fifteen. Then I debuted at sixteen, and here we are. Three years is considered a very short time to be a trainee, though.” 

“Wow. How do you know this is what you want to do for the rest of your life at  _ twelve _ ?” Hansol asks, mostly rhetorical. “I couldn’t do it. My sister got scouted once, actually, but my mom refused to let her sign with the company.” 

Jihoon’s face twists into something close to a smile. “Your mom’s smart. They’ll work you to death if you let them.” 

Hansol lets the topic go, and they listen to about three more songs before Jihoon peeps, shyly, “Can we play something else now? It’s kinda embarrassing.” 

“Before we do that,” Hansol says. “Which voice is yours on this track?” It’s the ballad he shoe-horned into the album, to give the fans a break from all the noise. 

Both men pause, and Jihoon waits for his verse to start and tells him, “Right now.” Another pause. “And now that’s Jeonghan.” 

“You have a nice voice.” Hansol’s looking at him now,  _ really _ looking, the one that seems to see his soul, his thoughts. It’s intense. Jihoon can only describe Hansol as one thing: Intense. Invasive, but in a way Jihoon welcomes, almost craves. 

“Thanks,” he croaks. He can’t look away even as Hansol grants his wish and turns the song off, disconnects Jihoon’s phone before he connects his own. Then a song is playing, a beach-y, very Californian type. 

“Mac Demarco,” Hansol tells him, as if Jihoon knows who that artist is and just needs a reminder. He sets his phone down gently on the piece of rug in front of him, leans over into Jihoon’s space, over his bean bag; and he takes the slightest of a pause to assess the wanton expression on Jihoon’s face, that signature slight-smile on his own, before he closes the rest of the gap between their mouths. 

Hansol smells like his apartment — vanilla and mint. He kisses like he has all the time in the world, a slow slide of their lips, gentle prod of his tongue. It’s nothing like the hurried kisses Jihoon has had with other idols, moving so fast it’s like they’re being timed, because often times they are. But now he has all the time in the world — the week — and Jihoon basks in this, moves his hands up to Hansol’s face and cups that sharp jaw in them. Hansol wraps his fingers around Jihoon’s thigh, moving up until it’s dangerously close to where his dick is fattening in his joggers. He squeezes, and Jihoon gasps into his mouth. 

Hansol pulls back, their lips still touching, whispers, “I wanted to do that all morning,” against them. And though he’s speaking softly, there’s still a husky character to his tone. Jihoon, up this close, can see how his pupils are blown, can see light brown flecks in his irises. It isn’t healthy how attracted Jihoon is to him. He could easily go missing for days. 

“I wanted you to,” Jihoon whispers back. 

_ I was made to love her, been workin’ at it _ , the speakers are singing. 

Then they’re kissing again, this time a little faster, a little more confident, and Jihoon’s licking into Hansol’s mouth, doesn’t want to leave any ground untouched. Hansol lets him control the kiss, pliantly leans back into his own bean bag, more and more until Jihoon is straddling his lap, fingers running across the tiny prickles of hair along Hansol’s jaw. He feels Hansol grabbing onto his thighs, moving his grip up and over his hips, onto his ass. Jihoon’s dick throbs between his legs at the touch, now half-mast and begging for any kind of friction. Anything. 

It’s going to have to wait. Jihoon sits down onto Hansol’s lap, right on the length of Hansol’s already-hard cock through his cargo pants, revels in the choked noise Hansol makes in his throat. He continues to move his hips, just to hear the low grumbles of a moan that he swallows in the kiss. Then Hansol juts his hips up as Jihoon moves down, still palming his ass they slide against one another. 

_ So please don’t take my love away, let my baby stay _ . 

They break the kiss to breathe, each man panting, and Hansol is looking up at Jihoon, blissed-out, says, “If we keep this up I’m — I’m gonna come in my fucking pants.” He knocks his head back and groans at a particularly rough grind. “Fuck, Jihoon-ssi,  _ please _ ,” he bites out, like talking pains him. 

And Jihoon’s no stranger to rash purchases, no stranger to rash decisions. The thought crosses his mind —  _ I want to suck his dick _ — and then that’s the thought that remains, resolute. It won’t go away until he does something about it. And he will. 

Hansol watches with a lustful gaze, as Jihoon moves down, down, down until only his upper body is in his lap. Jihoon keeps eye contact, undoes the button of Hansol’s pants, tugs down the zipper. “Take it off, then,” he says, demonstrating his request by trying to get both Hansol’s cargo pants and briefs down at the same time. Hansol does what he’s told without question, lifts his hips up so Jihoon can get them to his thighs. 

A cross between a shocked gasp and a moan escapes Hansol when Jihoon takes his dick into one hand, sucks the red-flushed head into his mouth. Hansol’s dick is thick, thick and longer than what Jihoon has seen with other men; he can get a hand completely around the girth of him, but his fingers are thin and short,  _ just _ overlapping. “Holy shit,” Hansol breathes out into an incredulous laugh. He reaches down and holds Jihoon by the back of his head, not yet pushing. “I’m gonna come so fast and it’s gonna be really fucking embarrassing.” 

Jihoon’s response is to hum around him, tongue running along the slit of his cockhead, tasting the first spurt of precum. He earns another breathy gasp and a, “ _ Fuck _ ,” from the other man. Then Jihoon’s swallowing him down, unable to reach the base without choking; he works with what he has, though, and bobs along the thick length that he can reach, tongue flat on the underside of Hansol’s cock. 

He finds his rhythm, the blow job getting sloppy with his spit — it’s obscene, the wet noises that rise up between soft strums of the music. And he’s definitely rock hard at this point, hard enough that it’s starting to hurt; he can’t hold back anymore, and he palms himself with his free hand, moaning around Hansol and earning another round of expletives. He wants to hold off, keep himself strung together until Hansol comes first — right down his throat, because he’s a rash idiot that makes rash decisions — but he feels himself coming undone, his orgasm building as he ruts into his own fucking hand through his joggers. He can feel himself slipping, every muscle tightening, then — 

Then Hansol grabs a fistful of Jihoon’s hair and leans forward and over Jihoon’s head, voice tight, strained, when he says, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, fuck, you gotta —“ before whimpering and going quiet. 

And that does it. Jihoon, scalp prickling with pain from the tug, Hansol’s desperate babbling in his ears, comes in his joggers. And while he shakes through his orgasm, Hansol’s stopped tugging and instead shoves Jihoon further down, the head of his dick nearly down his throat as he comes in spurts. He can’t breathe, and he’s choking on the heavy girth of Hansol, and yet it only pushes his climax to a higher peak; he can see the universe behind his eyelids. 

_ You’ll run with better men, alone again, alone again, alone again _ , sings a new song. 

“Oh my god,” Hansol starts to speak again, unmoving. “Fucking  _ incredible _ — you’re —” When his grip loosens, Jihoon pops off his dick, coughs and sputters for air. Prying his eyes open, he finds Hansol’s heavy stare; he looks like he’s been up through the stratosphere, his entire face flushed red, mouth hanging open to pant. It’s an expression better than Jihoon imagined it would be. “You — ?” 

Jihoon knows he looks far gone himself. Spit is all over his mouth and chin, post-orgasm tears are burning his eyes, and his hair has been ruined by Hansol’s hold. “I came in my — in my pants,” he breathes, answering the question he’s sure Hansol is asking. “Who’s,” another breath, “embarrassed now?” 

Hansol, returning to himself piecemeal, starts laughing. First gentle, then growing in volume until he’s covering his face with own hand and cackling. “We both came so fast,” he gets out. “Holy fuck.” Jihoon laughs in between his gasps for air. “Did you. You swallowed?” 

“I had no choice,” Jihoon tells him. He wipes at his face with the back of a hand. “Your dick was practically in my fucking esophagus.” Hansol shoots him an apologetic look. “I mean,” he amends. “I was planning on swallowing your cum anyway.” 

“That’s the hottest shit I’ve heard in a while,” Hansol’s tone is suddenly low. He bends over and lifts Jihoon’s head up by his chin, catching him in a kiss. It’s hungry, Hansol tasting himself in Jihoon’s mouth, moaning as he does so — and  _ that’s _ the hottest shit Jihoon’s heard in a while. 

When they (eventually) stop making out, Hansol shows Jihoon the bathroom so he can clean himself up. He gives Jihoon a pair of sweatpants with drawstrings while saying, “You may have to be without underwear until you get back to your hotel.” 

Jihoon rolls his soiled clothes up in a plastic bag that Hansol provides him and ambles back out in the bedroom. Hansol watches him. 

“Do you have to go now?” He asks, uncertain, mindlessly rubbing his hands up and down his cargo pants. 

Jihoon checks his phone. It’s already noon. There are several messages in the Seventeen group chat. He taps on the thread and skims to only the relevant ones. 

Joshua:  _ wooooozi. the gang’s going to eat some seafood. i can drop you my location. let’s go _

Seungcheol: _&_ _we finished filming so you dont have to worry about any cameras in your face. promise_. 

The truth is that he doesn’t want to leave. He’s been stuck with his bandmates the entire tour — hell, half of his  _ life _ . It isn’t that he hates them (Chan is like an annoying little brother), but it’s that he’s exhausted. Exhausted of the same faces, the same conversations because their everyday is spent together, the same old everything. Young-Hwan — the company, really — gave them this week to use it as they see fit. Jihoon wants to use it skateboarding, listening to music, pretending he’s a regular 23 year old. If only for a week. 

“I don’t  _ have _ to,” Jihoon says. He looks up from his phone, heart swelling at the sight of Hansol staring at him like a puppy about to be left behind. “Unless you want me to go.” 

Hansol’s face lights up. “Well. I don’t want you to. I have so many more artists to show you in so little time.” He picks his phone up from where he left it, flops back on his bed and pats the spot beside him. “Come look at this sick album cover.” 

Jihoon, biting back a smile, thumbs a response in the group chat.  _ Already had dinner. Next time _ . 


	2. i’m pleased to get you now, a moment felt too short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soonyoung tosses the sweatshirt onto his shoulder, hands Jihoon the bag back. “Whose clothes are you wearing?” 
> 
> Jihoon can always count on Soonyoung to get straight to the point. He doesn’t even know how to begin to answer that question. “Um.” He hesitates. “A friend.” It’s the best he can come up with on the spot. And it’s not exactly a lie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1's title is from the song Warm Water by Banks.  
> Chapter 2's title is from the song How's it Wrong by Toro y Moi. 
> 
> I've completely written this story, so the next chapter will be out in a few days. All previous warnings apply to this chapter, too. Thanks so much for reading.

The evening is spent listening to lots and lots of music. And Hansol will jump up from the bed and start dancing around his room, slow and sensual, like how he kisses. He’ll close his eyes and raise his arms as he sways, in a trance. If there’s a lyric that Hansol really likes, he’ll translate it for Jihoon; If there’s an album cover that he’s enamored with, he’ll pick up his phone and show him, pointing at all the details that make the full picture. 

Hansol’s got a great singing voice. At times he’ll sing low, baritone, from his chest, especially during raps. Other times, it’s high, gentle, and he presses a hand to his stomach as he hits the note. “ _Let’s go to the lake_ ,” he’s belting out in English. “ _Let’s jump in it naked_ ,” he makes eye contact with Jihoon, who is lying on the bed, grinning dumbly, always watching. “ _We can escape. We can leaaave this place_ .” He stops singing to translate the lyrics, and Jihoon giggles and shakes his head, eyes shutting while he does it. “ _This Side_ by Earth Gang,” Hansol tells him, then instantly goes back to singing along. 

Later on, “I don’t know the lyrics to this song,” Hansol is saying to his phone, right before he taps on the title. “It’s all in French, but I really like it. It’s house music-y.” _Paradis_ by Paradis. The sun has begun to fall behind the city’s skyline, basking the room in an orange glow. It illuminates Hansol’s body, makes his hair look more orange than brown. Ethereal. 

“Finally,” Jihoon says with a dramatic sigh. “A song we _both_ don’t understand.” Hansol picks up a random pillow and throws it at him, and Jihoon laughs as it hits him in the chest. “They were good! Promise! I just like to know what they’re saying, y’know?” 

Hansol nods at him, squinting his eyes and frowning playfully. “Sure, sure,” but he’s thumbing his phone, and _Paradis_ gets cut short for another song to play. It’s a mixture of English and Korean. “ _Neon_ by DPR LIVE,” he shouts over the beat, then he starts thrashing about, shouting the lyrics. “ _Your kisses make it go — neon, neon, neon_ …” 

The sun is completely gone by the time they get dinner. Hansol orders Chinese takeout, and they move to the living room to eat it. Jihoon doesn’t realize how hungry he is when he shoves a mouthful of white rice into his mouth. They completely skipped lunch, doing nothing but talking about the music. “So good,” Jihoon mumbles around the rice. “My company put me on a diet, told me I couldn’t eat rice for the next 3 months. _3 months_. Can you believe that?” 

Hansol takes a spot on the pastel pink couch right next to Jihoon, their knees knocking as he sips a spoonful of miso soup and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says. “I don’t know how you guys do it. Somebody controlling what you eat, what you do, who you date… since you were _twelve_ , dude.” 

The thought makes his stomach twist. He’s told himself that he can’t dwell on it, has to worry about the now and let the ten years fly by, but Hansol saying it aloud is like a splash of cold water. Startling. “Yeah.” He lowers his chopsticks. “I haven’t seen my parents in a year.” 

Hansol watches him for a little while, clearly unsure of how to tackle this. “I haven’t seen my parents in two years,” he tells him. “But by choice.” 

Jihoon wants to ask him why — almost does, too — but then the front door is swinging open and bangs against the wall, makes Jihoon jump. Hansol doesn’t stir; he goes back to drinking his soup. 

“Vernon,” a young woman is walking into the foyer, uses her leg to slam the door closed again. She’s white and thin, dark brown hair falling to her waist. Her bangs are cut straight across and are very, very short. In her hand is a recyclable bag with _Whole Foods_ printed on the front; she’s wearing a waitress uniform. “Oh my fuckin’ god, dude — it was _crazy_ today.” She doesn’t seem to have noticed Jihoon yet; she’s flinging her apron off, letting it fall where it wants, and kicking off her sneakers. 

“Crazy how,” the flat affect to Hansol’s tone makes it sound more like a statement than a question. He’s back to speaking English. 

“I was supposed to work 12 hours today,” she tells him, still fumbling with her shoes. “No problem. That’s what I signed up for — whatever. But _guess_ who calls out? And _guess_ who had to work all fuckin’ day to take her place? Me, and I’m fine with making extra —“ When she raises her head to finally look in Hansol’s direction, she catches Jihoon staring at her and freezes. “ _Holy_ shit. Oh. Hi.” 

That’s the first phrase that comes from her mouth that he can understand, outside of little words and the cursing. “Hi,” Jihoon returns in English. 

“She’s my roommate, Kelly,” Hansol switches to Korean, then addresses her in English. “He can’t understand English. He’s Korean.” 

Kelly considers him, nodding very slowly. “Is he… a relative?” She starts to make her way into the apartment, over to the kitchen. 

“No,” Hansol says to his soup, titters. “We don’t look alike at all, dude, c’mon.” He takes another sip. 

Her face turns red. “Well — how am I supposed to know? Cousins and shit can look completely different. Sorry. Was that racist?” When Hansol doesn’t bother to respond, she looks to Jihoon again. “What’s your name?” 

Another thing he understands. “Lee Jihoon,” he answers. 

“Lee is his last name,” Hansol interjects. 

“Oh,” Kelly says. “Hi, Jihoon. Nice to meet you.” 

It’s very strange to hear his first name without an honorific from a stranger (Hansol is a little different…), but he allows it. It’s America, after all. She won’t understand Korean social norms. “You, too,” he tries. 

Hansol looks up from his soup to regard Jihoon. “Wanna head back to my room? We can sit on the floor and eat.” 

Kelly produces a mini-carton of ice cream from the freezer and goes to get a spoon. “You know what I _just_ realized? I’ve never heard you talk in Korean before. You sound totally different.” 

Hansol’s already beginning to gather his food, so Jihoon follows suit without supplying his answer. “Yeah?” he offers. That’s it. 

They go into Hansol’s bedroom, lay out all the food on the rug. Jihoon watches as Hansol puts on a kung fu movie on his tiny TV. “Do you like this type of stuff? We can watch something else if you want.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Jihoon says. “I like action.” He wants to reopen the conversation about his parents, but doesn’t know how without making it awkward. “Are you guys friends?” he asks instead. 

Hansol is looking up at the screen, showing only the profile of his face. “Eh,” he says. “Kinda. She’s cool when she wants to be. A little invasive, though.” 

Jihoon accepts this with a hum and resumes eating his food. 

  
  
  
  
  


Before Jihoon knows it, it’s close to 11 p.m. They get through the kung fu movie, then, to Jihoon’s chagrin, watch some of Seventeen’s music videos. A fight for the remote, both men giggling and rolling around on the rug, ends the Marathon from Hell. “Why,” Hansol’s whining when Jihoon triumphantly shuts the TV off. “You look so bad ass in them. Your short black hair? It does things to me.” 

“The hair I have now doesn’t?” Jihoon flops on top of Hansol, who is lying on his back, hands by his side. He purposely puts his overgrown bangs in Hansol’s face, makes him swing his head side and side and beg for mercy. 

“You know it does,” Hansol says. Now they’re face to face, Jihoon sprawled across Hansol’s body, silver-grey hair dangling down. Hansol puts a hand on the small of Jihoon’s back, hooks a thumb under his shirt to run it across his bare skin. It makes him tingle. “I want you to stay the night…” 

Jihoon fishes his phone out of a pocket of the grey sweats and looks at the time. “Wow,” he sighs. “The day went by so quickly.” There are over fifty messages in the group chat. He’ll check that later. 

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to go back to his hotel room. Hansol looks so fucking cute when he’s pouting, his hair fanning out on the rug beneath him. No one will miss him, anyway. He has that room to himself. Jihoon shoves his phone back into the pocket and addresses Hansol. “Can I?” 

“Can you?” Hansol says, incredulous at the question. “Yes, idiot, yes.” He lifts his head up and catches Jihoon in a kiss, licks into his mouth and sighs. 

Somehow they make it to Hansol’s bed without breaking the kiss. And Jihoon lies back on top of him, pulls Hansol’s bottom lip into his mouth and nibbles, is rewarded with a moan. He can feel Hansol’s hand moving up the back of his shirt, fingers spread across the expanse of skin. Jihoon’s breath gets heavier, nearly whimpers when Hansol shoves a thigh between his legs and rubs at his fattening dick through the sweatpants. 

Jihoon detaches from Hansol’s bottom lip, reattaches himself on his jaw, down to his neck, sucks kisses into the sensitive skin he finds. “ _Jihoon-ssi_ ,” Hansol, with that baritone voice that sends warmth straight to Jihoon’s dick, groans, baring his neck so Jihoon has more skin to reach. He’s rubbing into the muscles of Jihoon’s back as Jihoon peppers him with kisses, knows some will bruise in the morning. 

Shameless, Jihoon humps against Hansol’s thigh as Hansol pushes it back against him; then he’s whimpering against Hansol’s throat, says, “I refuse to come in my pants again,” only for the two to burst into laughter. Hansol presses a tender kiss to Jihoon’s temple before he turns over, depositing Jihoon on the space beside him. 

“You won’t,” Hansol says to him, pupils large, dark. “You deserve more than that after that fucking incredible blowjob. So I’m gonna need you to take off your clothes before I take them off for you.” 

Jihoon definitely wouldn’t mind Hansol stripping him — turns him on more to think about — but he does as he’s told and starts to undress. Meanwhile, Hansol stumbles off the bed, nearly trips with how fast he goes to a drawer by the record player, pulls out a bottle of lube. Jihoon giggles watching him, laughs harder when Hansol has the mind to look bashful. “Totally not sexy, I know,” Hansol says. 

Hansol tosses the bottle on the bed and begins to strip his own clothes off while he’s still standing. Jihoon, now naked and feeling a little conspicuous, pulls the white sheet over half his body, his other hand holding himself at the base of his dick. He feels himself throb at the sight of Hansol’s bare stomach, at how the lines of his abs define when he tenses. Hansol is nothing but lean muscle, firm everywhere. “You’re definitely sexy,” Jihoon breathes out. 

He takes the chance to turn on another song — “ _Skyless Moon_ , another Mac Demarco,” he rattles off, sounding rushed. You can count on him to talk about music even when he’s about to get laid — and then slips back onto the bed, under the covers that are draped over Jihoon’s lower half. A hand reaching over to push Jihoon up off of his back and to his side, Hansol kisses him, deep and rough, almost, like he doesn’t have enough time. It’s a knock of teeth, lips catching; Hansol’s blindly squeezing some lube onto his hands at the same time, moves to slap Jihoon’s hand away from his own dick and replacing it with his. 

His hand is warm, slick, and as he strokes up the length, rubs a palm over his sensitive head, Jihoon breaks away and lets out a sob. It feels so fucking good, having another person’s hand wrapped around him, so good he can’t control the noises that escape him. “Holy fuck — do you know what you sound like right now?” he can hear Hansol babbling. He moves to the shell of Jihoon’s ear, breath hot. “You make me so fucking hard. Jihoon, wanna fuck you so bad.” 

That nearly does it for him. Toes curling, hand reaching for purchase on Hansol’s chest, Jihoon knows he’s going to come if Hansol keeps this up. “I’m close,” he gets out between moans. “‘M close already — _Hansol_.” 

Then the grip around his dick is gone, just as fast as it arrived, and Jihoon gasps at the sudden loss. He doesn’t have a chance to reel before Hansol hikes Jihoon’s free leg up and over his hip. Hansol pulls back from next to his ear to watch Jihoon as he dips his lube and precum-slicked fingers between Jihoon’s legs, under his balls, teases Jihoon’s hole with one. 

Jihoon’s mouth falls open, eyes closing, whimpers at the feeling of Hansol’s middle finger pushing past the ring of muscle with ease. “Look at me,” Hansol whispers, their faces mere centimeters apart. “I need you to look at me while I finger you.” 

Though at first hesitant, he obliges, breath trapped in his throat at the hungry, overwhelming expression Hansol’s wearing. He’s flushed a light red, across his cheeks, his ears, much like he was when he was showing Jihoon tricks under the California sun. “There we go,” Hansol says to him. “Just like that.” His finger pushes further in, Jihoon’s body slowly but surely opening up for him; he allows Jihoon to grow accustomed to him for a few seconds before another finger is sliding in beside it. There’s a slight burn, but once his fingers are fully nested inside of him there’s no more pain — only an unfamiliar sensation. Jihoon’s fingered himself on several lonely nights, yeah, but where his fingers are slim and short, Hansol’s are longer, broader. He’s able to get deeper inside of him than Jihoon ever could. A testament to this, Hansol hooks his fingers, presses _right there_ , right at the spot that makes Jihoon whimper, his cock leaking precum. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Jihoon hears himself beg. He’s having an out of body experience, so close to an orgasm, precisely at the edge — yet it isn’t enough. Hansol fucks into him in long, drawn out strokes, only moves faster when he feels Jihoon fucking back onto his fingers, writhing impatiently and pleading. He can’t come from this alone; he needs to touch himself. And he tries, only for Hansol to remove his fingers and push the hand away. 

“Let me, okay?” Hansol presses his mouth to Jihoon’s to say, then he’s shoving Jihoon onto his back again, crawls between his legs. He lifts one of Jihoon’s legs, draping it over his shoulder. 

And then Jihoon’s watching, eyes wet and red-lipped, as Hansol sucks the head of his dick into his mouth. He pops off and looks up, catching Jihoon’s blissful stare, before he gives a torturous, languid lick from the underside his of length, back up to the head, lapping up the spurts of precum that bead at his slit. Really, Jihoon can come simply from this view: Hansol, pretty boy college kid, tongue on his dick. 

He’ll think back on this with embarrassment. He knows he will, because the way he knocks his head back and outright sobs sounds foreign to even his ears. His voice goes high, high and thin in the way that it does when he sings, his hands coming down to thread through those brown-orange waves. Jihoon doesn’t think it can get better than this, his orgasm making his body jump and squirm — until Hansol fucks his fingers back into him, three at a time, unexpected. 

Another sob rips from him, and then Jihoon’s shaking, coming in long, thick spurts onto Hansol’s tongue. Hansol strokes him through it, waits for Jihoon to stop shaking before he pulls his fingers out, sits up from sucking on the head of his dick. 

Hansol swallows, gasps for breath. Jihoon lies there for several minutes, panting, his limbs flopping down listlessly. To say that that was incredible would be an understatement. It was so good he can’t think straight.

He watches dumbly as Hansol fists himself with the lube and cum-slicked hand, his hips jutting forward as he strokes down. “You’re so good,” Hansol’s babbling, watching Jihoon watch him. “So fucking pretty, Jihoon, _fuck_. Don’t want you to go, want you to stay here all week. Want you to fuck my mouth…” he groans, deep in his throat, right before he quiets, stills, and comes all over Jihoon’s lower belly, his softening dick. 

Jihoon still can’t believe this is happening. Happened. It feels like one, long, ultra realistic wet dream. Hansol flops onto his stomach beside him, Jihoon on his back. For a while the only sounds are their heavy breaths and whatever’s playing from his speakers. _If this is a dream_ , Jihoon thinks to himself. _I want to have it over and over again_. 

“ _As every hidden wish collides_ ,” Hansol begins to mumble. “ _I’m falling and I can’t deny it_.” 

Jihoon huffs an exasperated laugh. “And you’re right back to singing,” he says between breaths. “Nothing can stop you.” 

Hansol grins at him from where he lies, cheek on the pillow, fringe falling into his eyes. “ _Vivid Dreams_ ,” he says. 

Jihoon blinks. Pauses. Either this is a very odd coincidence, or Hansol can read his mind. “Huh?” 

“Kaytranada. That’s what’s playing.” 

Jihoon’s response is to toss the blanket over Hansol’s face, trying to bite back the smile that crosses his lips. No way is he going to give him any more fodder to keep this up — no matter how fucking endearing it is. Hansol breaks into a fit of giggles from under the sheet, laughs harder when Jihoon shouts at him to shut up. 

* * *

Jihoon wakes up to Hansol stirring beside him. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, rubs the heel of his hand into each. It’s morning, with the way the sun is pouring into the room through the translucent curtains. The night prior, each man took a shower after sex; Hansol gave Jihoon a tee shirt and some shorts to wear to bed, giggled at how big they looked on him. Then Hansol changed the soiled sheets and bedspread and they laid back down together, Hansol the big spoon draped over Jihoon’s smaller body. Jihoon doesn’t remember ever falling asleep. 

“What time is it?” Jihoon mumbles. 

Hansol is sitting on the edge of the bed, turns around to look at Jihoon. “Seven. I have to go to work in an hour.” His voice is groggy with sleep. 

Oh. Of course. Jihoon hates himself for forgetting that he’s the only one with the open week. “Guess I should go?” he says. 

Hansol reaches out, tucks a piece of silver-grey hair behind Jihoon’s ear. Even in the morning Hansol looks handsome, his (actual) bed head somehow fashionable. “Wanna come with? I know it may not be exciting, but…” He’s got the abandoned puppy face back on, Tired Edition. 

Jihoon smiles softly, puts a hand on top of Hansol’s lingering touch. “You _did_ say you wanted me to stay here all week.” 

Hansol turns red at the memory. “I did say that, didn’t I.” 

“Was that just a sex thing?” Jihoon asks, before he has a chance to regret it. “Or. Like. You actually want me to stick around?” 

Hansol considers him, unmoving. Then, “I’m serious if you are. And if you’re _not_ … then I was totally kidding and it was totally a sex thing.” 

Even through the sleep-haze Jihoon has the mind to laugh. “Good thing I’m being serious, then.” 

  
  
  
  


Vic is already there when Hansol and Jihoon enter the store. Jihoon’s wearing another Hansol ensemble: a neon orange tee shirt that says ‘anti social social club’ on the upper right chest, a black pair of joggers, and then the sandals he wore yesterday. It smells like Hansol, too — vanilla and mint — and it turns Jihoon on a little, if he’s being honest. 

“Morning,” Hansol shouts out to Vic as he waltzes in. He’s not wearing a hat today, his hair done neatly for the first time since Jihoon met him; his tee shirt is a pastel blue, random patches of patterns stitched across it, jeans dark wash with holes in the knees, and he’s wearing another pair of Converses. Dark blue Converses. _He’s the only person that would be able to pull this off_ , Jihoon was thinking when Hansol got dressed earlier that day. 

Vic starts to say something, but stops dead in her tracks when Jihoon comes into view. “Morning — ?” He can see her eyeing the shirt he’s got on. Jihoon bows awkwardly, walks faster to keep up with Hansol. 

They get into the employee break room, and Hansol goes to his locker, swinging it open. “Wow,” he says. 

“What?” 

Hansol lifts a red water bottle out of the locker. It’s chipped in places, and there are a few dents, but it’s littered with all kinds of stickers of brands and musicians. He turns to Jihoon, holding it up. “My water bottle miraculously appears in my locker. Interesting.” 

“Your water bottle?” Jihoon feels like this is a conversation he missed. 

Hansol pauses. “Oh — right. Yesterday, when we met, I was asking Vic about this. She said it’d be in my locker, but it wasn’t there. Suddenly — bam — here it is.” He breaks into a shy smile when Jihoon doesn’t express the same relief. “It’s stupid, I know. I have a lot of stickers on here that I won’t be able to ever get again if I lose this, so. Yeah. Anyway.” He returns the bottle to his locker. “I gotta clock in.” 

Jihoon waits as Hansol clocks in and puts a lanyard with some keys over his neck. When they leave the break room and return to the cashier counter, Vic has the _what is going on here?_ face that she had the last time Jihoon saw her. Hansol switches to English as he speaks to her; for the first time in a while, Jihoon wishes he could understand. He’d never really been interested in learning the language, always thought that he was never going to live outside of South Korea, anyway, so there’s no point. The only time he ever leaves the country is to go on tour, and he doesn’t need English for that. 

“You want me to man the cash register? Or work on the floor,” Hansol is saying. “I can do either. Up to you.” 

Vic looks from Jihoon and back to Hansol. “Is that not your shirt he’s got on? Am I seeing things?” 

Hansol stares at her. One eyebrow raised, he continues, “So — what do you prefer to do? It’s not gonna be super busy today since it’s, like, Monday.” 

“You are such a _player_ ,” Vic bursts into laughter, bending over the counter. “Vernon. Do you have a magic spell book or something? What’s the trick? Is it your dreamy eyes? ‘Cos I need some tips.”

Hansol deflates, shoulders falling, and groans a loud, “Oh my fucking god, Victoria,” his eyes rising to the ceiling. Jihoon looks helplessly between the two, growing increasingly nervous the more that Hansol appears annoyed. “I’m trying to do my job here. Jihoon’s sticking around, alright? Is that okay with you?” 

Vic looks at Jihoon, a sly grin on her face. “That’s cool with me. I can work the floor, if you want. I already counted.” 

They exchange keys, and Hansol tugs Jihoon with him behind the counter as Vic squeezes out and onto the floor. “What was she saying?” Jihoon asks him when she’s out of earshot. 

Hansol logs into the computer next to the register, says, “She was asking about you. I didn’t tell her anything.” 

“Did she ask about the shirt? She kept staring at it.” 

“Yeah,” Hansol says. “She knows it’s one of my faves, so she was being nosy as usual.” 

One of his favorites. Jihoon tries to ignore the way his heart skips a beat. “Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say. It’s a sweet gesture explained to him so casually, as if Hansol were discussing the weather. “I’m, um. Honored.” It’s stated like a question. 

Hansol finally tears his gaze away from the computer to address Jihoon. “Is it too weird? ‘M not trying to, like, rush into things or ‘claim you’ or something like that. I just thought it’d be, y’know. It’d look cute on you —“ 

Jihoon leans onto Hansol, his cheek pressed to his shoulder. It’s a gesture that shuts Hansol up. His palm returns to the small of Jihoon’s back, rubbing those little circles. “We can rush,” Jihoon says, low. “Squeeze a year into a week.” He glances up at Hansol. “You already asked me to stay.” 

Hansol’s staring at him like he’s the only person on earth. Those same, brown eyes boring deep into Jihoon’s soul, leaving a piece of himself there. “I did, didn’t I,” Hansol parrots himself from earlier in the morning. “A year into a week. I like that.”

Vic comes up from behind a rack, a pile of clothes in her hands. “Hey, fucker,” she calls out over the music. “Stop flirting on the clock, please.” 

Hansol rolls his eyes, but does as instructed and removes his hand from Jihoon’s back, goes back to typing away on the computer. 

“What did she say?” Jihoon asks. “I’m gonna sound like a broken record, sorry.” 

“Told us to stop flirting on the clock.” 

Jihoon stands back up from leaning on Hansol’s shoulder. Oops. “I can help out with stuff,” he says. 

Hansol shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that. We’ve got it.” 

“I might as well do _something_ if I’m here,” Jihoon insists. 

“Well…” Hansol stops typing to think. “We didn’t have enough time to get breakfast. Maybe get coffee? Food? I can give you some money.” He starts fishing through his pockets for his wallet, but Jihoon grabs his wrist to still him. 

“I’ve got more than enough money for food, Hansol,” Jihoon tells him. “U.S. money.” 

Hansol regards him shyly. “Right. Mr. K-pop idol.” 

Jihoon jots down Hansol’s order and the instructions on how to get to the restaurant in the notes app of his phone, listens carefully as Hansol translates the words to English. Then he’s off, ambling down the streets of Venice beach, sweating his balls off. 

Being alone after spending the past twenty four or so hours with Hansol reminds him that he hasn’t been checking the group chat. The last time was when he rejected their invitation to lunch. Jihoon flicks out of the notes app, sighs heavily at the 100+ notification he finds before he taps it. 

There’s a lot of talk about what they’ve been up to. A lot of pictures of Soonyoung having a blast with Chan at various places: the beach, the arcade, several different restaurants. Seungcheol and Joshua sent some of their own pictures, too: Joshua’s back as he stands on the beach, looking out at the sunset; Seungcheol at a diner, staring off to the side. A couple of times they’ve mentioned Jihoon, asking about his whereabouts — and of course, Jihoon didn’t answer. Because he hasn’t been checking. 

He’ll give them a little something. At least to show that he’s still alive and not dead in a ditch somewhere. Jihoon sends the pictures he took yesterday of the boardwalk and the tourists. No caption. It doesn’t take long for a flurry of responses to fly in, 

Soonyoung: _he’s alive!!!!! jihoonie!!!!! good pictures kekekeke_

Joshua: _woozi woozi when you weren’t responding you made me woozy_ . _good to see you’re well :)_

Seungcheol: _nice._

There. Mission accomplished. Jihoon flicks back to the notes app and follows the directions. 

* * *

During his hour-long lunch break, Hansol and Jihoon go to an ice cream parlor, leaving Vic to manage the store by herself. Jihoon claims a booth in the back corner while Hansol goes up to the counter to order for them, stares out at all the people walking by outside the window. It’s another gorgeous day in Los Angeles; there isn’t a cloud in sight, the sun relentlessly beating down on sweaty faces. He’s sure Soonyoung is out there somewhere playing in the ocean. 

“Your vanilla cone, sir,” Hansol says when he slides into the booth on the same side as Jihoon, crowding him in. “One scoop, because your company wants you to suffer, apparently.” 

Jihoon smiles his thanks as he takes the cone from Hansol and licks at it. “You know,” he says, smoothly avoiding another conversation about how much of a slave he is to Pledis. “Speaking of entertainment companies — you have a really nice singing voice.”

Hansol beams, tosses his free arm around Jihoon’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. You, too.” 

“And you’re, like. _Obsessed_ with music,” Jihoon continues. “Have you ever thought about being a musician? Or a music artist, or something?”

The smile on Hansol’s face fades as fast as it arrives. Jihoon can feel himself starting to get sweaty from nerves. Had he struck a sore spot? Too intrusive? Should he apologize, say forget it, go back to eating his one-scoop-because-his-company-wants-him-to-suffer vanilla ice cream? In the few seconds of their mutual silence, he’s made up his mind and fumbles out an apology, but Hansol speaks over him, cutting him off. 

“I did,” Hansol says. A pause. “I _do_ ,” he corrects himself. “Umm… it’s kinda why I came to Los Angeles.” Jihoon quietly waits for Hansol to lap up his mint chocolate scoop when some of it drips onto his fingers. “I graduated from UCLA — it’s a big, popular-ish college nearby here — with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree.” 

Jihoon asks it before he has the wherewithal to stop himself. “Does this have something to do with your parents?” 

The look that Hansol gives him is all the answer he needs. “That obvious?” Hansol chuckles, but there’s no real joy to it. “Yeah. In a way. They let me come back to the states to get an engineering degree.” 

“You wanted to do engineering?” 

Hansol shrugs, eyes moving to stare at the little chocolate chips in his ice cream. “I was always good at math… I ‘dunno. I guess, like. Since I was really young I was telling them that I wanted to sing. I’m sure you know how that story goes: the say it’s not likely I’ll ever ‘make it’” — he makes quotation marks with the hand draped over Jihoon — “I’m tellin’ them, _I don’t care about the money or the fame!,_ they put their foot down, and. Yeah.” 

It doesn’t take rocket science to connect the dots. Jihoon says, “You lied so they’d send you to LA.” Not a question. He’s heard this same tale over and over again back home: the overbearing parents, the kid with big dreams, the dismantling of a healthy familial relationship. It’s a stark contrast to his own childhood; luckily, his parents were very supportive, saw that he was talented, hence his big move to the Pledis dormitories at the terrifyingly young age of twelve. Sometimes he wonders where he would’ve ended up if he didn’t have their encouragement, much like Hansol’s situation. 

“Something like that. I started out as an engineering major, actually.” Hansol pauses to take another lick at a loose dribble of ice cream. “I changed my major after, like, two semesters. When I finally fessed up, ‘cos I knew I had to eventually, we had this _huge_ argument. Like, massive. It was when I went back to South Korea for the holidays.” 

Jihoon looks off at the growing line of customers while he tries to piece together the story. “You told me yesterday that you haven’t spoken to them in two years. Wouldn’t that mean — ?” 

“Yeah,” Hansol cuts him off again. “I didn’t stop talking to them at that time. But things definitely weren’t the same. They pretended like I never went to college and only called to ask about random shit. I guess to make sure I was alive. I ‘dunno.” He takes a longer pause, so long Jihoon thinks he’s had enough of recounting the story. Hansol eats more of his cone in the quiet, his expression hardened in a way that Jihoon hadn’t seen prior. 

Hansol’s got half of his ice cream done when he speaks up, voice tight, “I started going to therapy. For a lot of shit — not just because of them. But it was definitely a big talking point. Umm. My therapist didn’t, like, _tell_ me to go no contact. I decided over time that I didn’t want to bother anymore. The whole situation was fucking me up.” 

This time it’s Jihoon that rubs soothing circles into Hansol’s lower back, pressing their shoulders together. Hansol still isn’t looking at him, only staring hard at the chocolate chips as if he’s speaking to them. “You’re doing what’s best for you,” Jihoon says. 

Hansol’s mouth twists into a smile. “I ‘dunno… like.” Another pause, a hard swallow. “Sometimes I think about how maybe they were right. I snagged a few internships here and there… sent out a shitload of digital portfolios. And as you can see, I’m in a two-bedroom apartment, working full-time at a fuckin’ clothing store.” 

“You’re only _twenty-three_ , Hansol,” Jihoon says. “So many popular artists didn’t start their careers until their late twenties. Thirties, even. You have your entire life to get your foot in the door.” 

“We’re the same age and you’re on _tour_ , Jihoon. You let me listen to an entire album written and produced by _you_. That argument doesn’t hold up.” 

Jihoon stops rubbing the circles in his back. “Hansol. That’s not even close to being comparable and you know it. We talked about this. I’m where I am now, because I sold my soul to a corporation _way_ before I could understand what I was getting myself into. I’m stuck in a _ten-year_ contract, doing whatever the fuck I’m told like some kind of circus monkey.” This gets Hansol to finally look at him; Jihoon can see tears burning in his eyes. “It was fully on _me_ to write our music as soon as we debuted. If we don’t win any music shows, or our albums don’t sell as well as we’d hoped, it’s all on _me_. Do you get how that can fuck a teenager up?” 

Hansol opens his mouth to speak, but Jihoon powers on, like something in him broke, releasing the thoughts he could never say to a camera, to his bandmates. “I can’t date. If I do and get caught, my career is over. I have had to _sneak out_ to get my dick wet. I — _fuck_ — I fucked a _bandmate_ for a while because we were on tight watch, and we were scared, and — “ Fuck. He can feel his own tears building, threatening to be released. He shuts his eyes tightly, taking a moment to collect himself, and Hansol lets him. When he opens his eyes again, he continues, but softly, “Our situations aren’t the same. I haven’t felt normal in forever. I live for my bandmates… and I mean that in every sense of the word. I live for them, because I love them like they’re my brothers. I live for them, because I have to keep making hits, I have to make us successful. I want _them_ to be successful.” 

Hansol moves his arm down to snake it around Jihoon’s waist; he pulls him in and plants a very gentle, slow kiss to Jihoon’s temple. It’s so tender that it releases a tear or two from Jihoon’s left eye. “You’re incredible,” Hansol whispers against his skin, makes the hairs on the back of Jihoon’s neck stand up. He can never grow tired of that voice: baritone, musical. “And so incredibly selfless. I’m sorry.” 

Jihoon’s not even hungry anymore. He puts his partly-eaten cone onto a napkin on the booth table, then rubs the tears away from his cheek. “What I mean to say,” he takes a deep breath. _This is not about you, Jihoon_. “Is that it’s not too late for you. Not even close. Your parents are wrong.” It’s said with finality. 

Hansol leans his head back to regard Jihoon. He’s still got the tears in his eyes, but the smile on his face is genuine, sweet. “No wonder you’re Seventeen’s composer. You have a way with words, y’know that?” 

Jihoon breaks into a laugh and lowers his eyes. “Thanks.” 

Then Hansol’s putting his own half-eaten cone onto the same napkin, twists his upper body towards Jihoon and pulls him into an embrace. Jihoon’s visceral reaction is to slide away from him, his years of being an idol a lesson on What Not to Do in Public — but he realizes that he’s not in South Korea. It’s Los Angeles. Not many people know him here, and even if they did, a hug between men will hardly be a scandal; they’re not kissing or anything. And Jihoon’s hidden in Hansol’s arms. 

He presses his forehead into Hansol’s shoulder, burying his face there. Mint and vanilla. And he knows he himself smells like it, too. Hansol around him, his clothes on him — even Hansol’s shampoo and body wash. “Fuck,” Hansol whispers, his chin on top of Jihoon’s head. “Feels like I’ve known you for years. I don’t want you to go.” 

The pained tilt to it makes Jihoon’s chest hurt. He doesn’t say what he wants to say — _I don’t wanna go, either_ — in fear of getting too emotional. Instead he reaches up behind Hansol, runs his fingers along the hair on the back of Hansol’s head. Soft little orange-brown waves. 

Not including today, there’s already five days left until he departs for South Korea. It felt so long just yesterday, now suddenly feels way too short. How can a year fit into a week? 

“Let’s go to the beach,” Hansol is saying out of nowhere. “After my shift. We can wait until it’s dark out so it’s not as crowded.” 

Jihoon, chest still tight, says, “Sure.” 

  
  
  
  
  


There’s still a good scatter of people, but, as promised, the beach has cleared up a lot. They sit on the white sand, close enough to the shore that the ocean nips at their bare toes on every other crash, and they share a small box of curly fries. 

Hansol tells him about going to college in America, — “I went to too many frat parties to count, dude, oh my god. I was getting wasted almost every weekend. Oh — um. A fraternity is, like, a club. It’s supposed to be like a big brotherhood, and they can live together, do charity work …” — tells him about the friends he made in those four years before most of them went back to their respective states, countries, leaving Hansol in LA. “I met Kelly in a music history class,” Hansol explains. “She’s fucking incredible on the piano, dude. Some days I’d go to the practice rooms with her and sing while she played. Those were awesome times.” 

“You still live with her,” Jihoon says. “Those days don’t have to be over.” 

“She doesn’t really play anymore,” Hansol says. “She doesn’t own a piano — we can’t even fit one in our tiny ass apartment, anyway — and she’s always working, so. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for that.” 

Jihoon hums a response, pops another fry into his mouth and chews. He has his knees up, thighs pressed to his chest. 

Hansol leans back on his hands, legs spread. “Well. Like. We dated for maybe half? a year. Way back when we first met.” He avoids eye contact when Jihoon looks up from the fries. “It’s not like things are awkward, or anything. For the most part, she treats me as a good friend. Um. I guess it’s more awkward on my part. She can be kinda weird when I bring people over.” 

Jihoon doesn’t know why this comes to him as a surprise, but it does. Once again he’s having to orient himself, remember where and who he is and how fundamentally different their lives are. Moving in with a girl he’s briefly dated, recounting how he’s had people over, most likely in his bed, an undisclosed number of times. A life Jihoon can’t even imagine having. And he’s tried. 

“Uhhh,” Hansol continues, filling in the silence that Jihoon was supposed to be filling. “I think I make things more of a big deal than she does. And, uhh. _God_ ,” he knocks his head back and groans. “What am I saying? I’m being weird again, I know.” 

“Is that why you got all stand-offish when she saw us?” Jihoon hears himself asking. “Because she doesn’t like it when you’re fucking other people?” 

Hansol’s doing it again — the whole not looking at him when the conversation gets heavy thing. “Umm. Sorta, but it was also because I felt it ruined the moment. I liked that it was just us.” 

“Does she know you — does she know you’re into men?” 

Still no eye contact. Hansol’s hyper-fixated on the flecks of sand stuck to his wet feet. “Yeah.” 

Jihoon keeps the stare on the profile of Hansol’s face. “What were you guys saying? When she was looking at you like she said something embarrassing.” 

Hansol doesn’t respond right away. “She,” he starts. “She was asking if we were relatives… and I told her that we don’t look alike. Like, insinuating that it was a stupid question.”

This time Jihoon doesn’t respond right away. He picks up another fry, a tiny one, and holds it up to his mouth, not yet popping it in. “You still into her?” 

“No,” comes an immediate response. “Not at all. I’m just _really_ fuckin’ awkward, and I think _way_ too much about other people’s feelings. I know I made it sound all weird, but — no. That ship has sailed.” 

It’s not that it matters. However long Jihoon feels like he’s known Hansol, the fact of the matter is that in 4.5 days he may never see him again. And even if Hansol comes back to South Korea, Jihoon can’t publicly date anybody for the foreseeable future. Especially men. Doesn’t have the time for it, anyway. And Kelly will always be here, in their hippie’s wet-dream apartment, the two awkwardly navigating around one another, not able to say what’s truly on their minds. 

He doesn’t know why he’s being weird about it. More so, he doesn’t know why Hansol is scrambling to explain it away, like they’re actually dating and he got caught in a tickle-truth. 

“I, um,” Jihoon starts to say. “I know I called my bandmates my brothers earlier — right before I said I used to have sex with one of them.” Hansol finally looks up at him, attention caught. “And _that_ was weird. Weirder than anything you just told me.” 

They both crack smiles, and then Hansol giggles, covers his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t even catch that,” Hansol says. “I was too busy feeling like a whiny dumb ass.” 

“ _Most_ of them are like brothers to me,” Jihoon corrects. “Seungcheol and I… We were different. He’s the leader of our band, and I spent a lot of time with him, especially during our trainee years.” 

Hansol nods slowly. “Are _you_ still into him?” 

“That ship has sailed,” Jihoon parrots Hansol’s previous words in his best Hansol voice, and they both fall into another fit of giggles. “But — nah. It was mostly a desperate sex thing. He got really stressed, because he was our leader and had to be the one to mediate arguments, be the one to lean on. And I got really stressed, because, y’know. Music making, shame and guilt if our songs didn’t do well. Yeah.” He puts the baby fry back down into the container. “We started arguing a lot. _A lot_. Stopped fucking at the same time. And after we got past that phase, we didn’t start again. Never talked about it.” 

“That must be hard,” Hansol says. “You’re fighting, but you still have to live and perform together.” 

Jihoon huffs a wry laugh. “Oh, yeah. I’d lock myself in my studio all the time.” He’s thankful those days are long behind him. 

Hansol puts a hand on Jihoon’s closest knee, squeezes. “You’re one badass motherfucker, y’know that? I’m happy I got to meet you,” he says. He’s back into Jihoon’s soul, gaze heavy — intense. “Y’put a lot of shit into perspective for me.” 

_Likewise_ , Jihoon thinks to himself, leans over to rest his head on Hansol’s shoulder. “You flatter me,” he says aloud. 

* * *

They barely get into Hansol’s room before Jihoon’s pulling him down by the back of his neck and kissing him. Hansol’s walking backwards, blindly pulls his door handle down and shoves the door open; when they’re inside, Jihoon blindly shuts it closed with his foot, hands busy in Hansol’s hair. 

Hansol’s backed into his bed, and he falls onto it, the kiss broken. He watches with hungry eyes as Jihoon tugs his own tee shirt off while standing. “I need you to do me a favor,” Jihoon says, tossing the shirt onto the carpeted floor. He starts fumbling with the joggers next. 

“And what is that?” Hansol says to Jihoon’s bare chest. 

Jihoon shoves the joggers down to his ankles and pulls his legs out of them. “I need you to fuck me.” 

Hansol laughs, a delightfully incredulous one, and he has to swallow the spit in his mouth when he says, “ _Fuck_ , I love it when you talk like that,” already palming himself through his jeans. 

“Is that a yes?” Jihoon teases, thumbs under his briefs — _Hansol’s_ briefs, he thinks, makes himself hornier at the reminder — waiting for the answer before he takes them off. 

“Wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you,” Hansol breathes, still palming himself. “Tried so hard to keep it together.” 

Then Hansol jumps up off the bed, and Jihoon lies back on it, watches Hansol perform his routine while taking off the briefs: him grabbing the lube and tossing it on the bed, fumbling with his phone and the speakers to play a song. Once he gets one on (“ _Love_ by Dean,” he blurts out), he’s turning back around, pulling off his own clothes like they’re on fire. 

When he’s stripped down bare, his cock half-mast and flushed red between his legs, Hansol tugs the sheets up from under Jihoon, Jihoon giggling as he tries to get off of it without getting off the bed. Then he’s crawling up and over Jihoon, drapes the sheets over the two of them as he tilts down for another kiss. It’s another long, slow one, much like the first time Hansol kissed him; he holds himself up by one elbow, the other trailing fingertips over Jihoon’s clavicles, his chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Jihoon gasps into the kiss, back involuntarily arching up, when Hansol catches a pink nipple between two fingers, twists it hard enough that it elicits a dangerous mix of pain and pleasure.

_I need your blessing, baby; I’ll fuck you if you let me, baby, yeah…_

“Hansol,” Jihoon’s gasping. He’s gone cross-eyed trying to look at Hansol from so close up. He’s already fully hard, and he wraps a hand around himself, gives his dick dry tugs and whimpers. “C’mon.” 

Hansol tilts back down to suck kisses into Jihoon’s neck, revels in the way Jihoon’s voice goes high and thin. “I got you,” he says, huskily, bites back a smile when his hot breath makes Jihoon’s back curve up again. “Don’t worry.” 

He fucks Jihoon open with his fingers after slicking them up, one first, then quickly to two, three. He’s got Jihoon’s legs spread, one up and over his shoulder. And every time he hooks his fingers, pushes up towards the ceiling, Jihoon lets out a sob, hips fucking back down onto them. “You’re so pretty,” Hansol’s telling him; he’s watching Jihoon’s face, unfaltering, laughs when Jihoon shyly turns his head. “You are,” he insists. “Just wanna look at you all the time.” 

It’s nothing overtly sexual, but it turns Jihoon on all the same — it’s that fucking voice. The voice that makes his entire body vibrate even when Hansol’s not touching him, even when he’s talking about random stuff, like his old friends, his college life. Jihoon wants to hear him all the time, every day, wants Hansol to never shut up until he’s gone back to South Korea and his real life. He wants Hansol. 

Fuck. He wants him. His emotions are heightened by the shocks of pleasure, Hansol’s touch, Hansol’s baritone voice, makes his eyes burn with tears, sweat beads at his temples and upper lip. And Jihoon bites his bottom lip to stop himself from begging for Hansol’s fingers when they pull out of him; instead he watches, face hot and flushed red, mouth wet, as Hansol sits back on his haunches to slick the long, thick length of his own dick with the lube. The covers remain draped over him. 

Then Hansol’s hooking Jihoon’s dance-toned legs over his shoulders, leaning back in to catch Jihoon in another kiss, this one a fraction more desperate than the previous. “I want you,” Jihoon says into the kiss, can’t help himself. “Want you, Han, please — “ 

When Hansol slides into him, he never looks away from Jihoon, greedily drinks up the way Jihoon’s mouth falls open and eyes close, the way Jihoon falls quiet, like he’s been shut off. Hansol’s dick is thick, so thick that it feels like there’s no way Jihoon can take all of him; but then Hansol’s hips are flush against Jihoon’s ass, Hansol’s peppering kisses on his jaw, his chin — and Jihoon finds his voice again, cries out over the music. 

For a moment they’re still. Hansol’s panting, trying, _trying_ to keep himself together so that Jihoon can adjust. “Fuck, fuck, Jihoon,” Hansol gasps, already sounds far gone. “You’re so tight — I could come just like this. Shit.” 

Jihoon throws his arms around Hansol’s neck, lets them hang loosely around him. “I’m good,” Jihoon whispers. “I’m good.” He’s panting himself, feels so vulnerable in the way he’s opening up for Hansol, trying not to tighten around Hansol’s dick. 

That’s what it takes for Hansol to start to move, his hips rolling as he fucks into him. It’s slow at first, smooth strokes, much like the way he dances. Hansol’s red-flushed face drops down into the crook of Jihoon’s neck, and both men are gasping, occasional whimpers slipping from Jihoon’s mouth. He’s fighting the visceral urge to touch himself, wants to enjoy this, enjoy the way Hansol’s cockhead is rhythmically nudging against his prostate and making his own dick bead with precum, makes his hips shake. 

He registers, briefly, that a song that he finally knows comes on — _Pour Up_ , Dean singing seductively through the speakers — before Hansol picks up his pace, quickens the way he snaps down and into Jihoon, so deep — so fucking deep — it has tears swelling in his eyes. “There, there, there,” Jihoon’s babbling, voice gone thin and high. “Don’t stop — _fuck_ , Hansol…“

“Incredible,” Hansol’s saying, right before he sits up, back straight, Jihoon’s arms falling off from around his shoulders. “You’re incredible.” Hands hooking under Jihoon’s thighs, he shoves his legs up, practically to Jihoon’s chin, giving himself a perfect view of everything: Jihoon’s dick laying on his lower belly, pink and leaking; and his own, almost completely inside of Jihoon. 

It doesn’t take many more strokes before Jihoon gives up his plight and wraps a grip around himself, his precum allowing just enough slip as he jerks off. Then, muscles tightening and his body shaking, Jihoon sobs hard, cheeks wet with tears, says, “ _Coming_ ,” right before he paints his abdomen and hand with his cum. 

“You’re so good,” Hansol gasps. “Holy shit — so pretty, _Jihoon_ — “ Suddenly, he lets go of one of Jihoon’s legs and pulls his dick out of him, Jihoon whimpering through it, and jerks himself only a few times. It’s all it takes for him to quiet as he also comes in spurts, again on Jihoon’s belly. 

Jihoon’s dazed, post-orgasm sleepiness is washing over him when Hansol finally flops down beside him. Jihoon closes his eyes, listens to the way they’re breathing in tandem and how the song is fading away. “You know,” Jihoon tries. Hansol tiredly hums a response. “I never realized how sad that song is.” 

Hansol pauses, then starts to laugh, his voice muffled into the mattress because he’s lying prone. “Is it your turn to talk about music after sex?” 

Jihoon laughs at himself. “I guess so.” He pries his eyes open, stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve never really listened too hard to the lyrics before.” 

Hansol hums again. 

Jihoon flops his head to the side to look at him. Most of Hansol’s face is covered by his hair. “I also realized,” Jihoon continues. “That we didn’t use a condom.” 

This gets Hansol to raise his head enough to see Jihoon. “Ahh,” he says, falters. “Did I fuck up?” 

Jihoon waves him off with a flop of his hand. “Nah,” he says. “We’ve already swallowed each other’s cum. I’m a goner.” _On the first day I met you_ , _too_ , Jihoon thinks. Dangerous, rash decisions. 

“Hey,” Hansol pouts at him, and it’s the cutest thing Jihoon has seen in a minute. “I’m clean. Promise.” 

Jihoon giggles. “For the sake of my sanity, I’ll choose to believe you.” 

* * *

Everything feels too good to be true — because it is. Jihoon feels like he’s trapped in a dating simulator, and any minute now he’ll wake up in his dorm room, pants wet with his ejaculate. For a moment, he actually believes he’s dreamt all of this — a too perfect boy, a too perfectly open week, a too perfect meeting — when he’s sleepily watching Hansol sway to jazz in the morning, four days before he has to go home. He’s wearing nothing but some clean briefs as he tidies up his room. 

The translucent curtains are letting in the sun, splaying it across Hansol’s skin, casting him in a golden glow. And sometimes Hansol will glance at him while he’s cleaning, give a shy smile, and look away. Jihoon pinches his own thigh under the sheets, enough to elicit pain. OK. He’s not dreaming. 

Hansol ends up arriving late to work. Which shouldn’t have happened, considering they were up hours before his shift started. But Hansol was looking sexy in his briefs, arms and legs toned, lines on his abdomen — and Hansol was being irresponsible, crawling onto the bed to whisper, “I still want you to fuck my mouth,” before he slid back off and scurried into the bathroom. 

So. Jihoon ends up naked, his moans reverberating against the tiles of the bathroom, as Hansol, kneeling, swallows his dick, gets halfway down the length of it before he grabs both of Jihoon’s hands and guides it to his hair. And Jihoon can hear the wet sounds of Hansol’s mouth and throat when he’s thrusting into him, two hands holding Hansol’s head still. 

Then Hansol’s pulling off his dick, fingers Jihoon open, and bends him over the sink. “Want you to see what you look like when I’m fucking you,” Hansol, his chest to Jihoon’s back, says against the shell of his ear. 

Jihoon can see stars, blinded by his pain and his pleasure, as Hansol pushes into him, one hand holding his hip while the other is in Jihoon’s hair, pulling tight enough to force Jihoon’s head back. And he does as he’s told; he watches his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the long line of his white neck, how his face is flushed pink, his mouth hanging open, jolting as Hansol fucks into him with sharp snaps. He’s still tender from the night before, but it’s a good kind of tender, adds an extra edge that has Jihoon dragging closer and closer to his orgasm. 

The only thing that shuts him up is when Hansol wraps his fingers around the hollow of his throat, pressing down tight enough to constrict his airflow. Now free, Jihoon’s head falls between his shoulders, and — with the hurried slap of skin to skin in his ear, made louder by the empty space of the bathroom — he comes in sobs, before he can even get a hand around himself. It’s only after they return to their senses that Hansol asks him if he’s okay to walk. 

“A little sore,” Jihoon tells him, turns on the shower as Hansol sits on the floor of the bathroom and watches. “But I’ll be fine. Feels kinda good.” 

That gets Hansol to groan and knock his head back, Jihoon laughing. “Don’t get me hard again, dude.” 

  
  
  


“You’re becoming a lovestruck slacker now?” Vic is saying to Hansol later that day, when he ambles into the store twenty minutes late, Jihoon at his heels. “You’re lucky I like you, otherwise that’d be a write-up.” 

“What did she say?” Jihoon looks up and whispers to a straight-faced Hansol. 

“Said she would’ve written me up if she didn’t like me,” Hansol translates, conveniently forgetting to relay the first part. 

* * *

  
  
They decide that Jihoon needs proper skateboarding lessons. “I didn’t bully you into buying that skateboard for nothing,” Hansol is telling him as they fold clothes in a packed corner of the store. “If you go get some sneakers from your hotel room, we can go to the skate park when I’m off work. I’ll bring my skateboard, too.” 

And it’s a date. 

This is why Jihoon ends up back in the hotel after being MIA for three days. That, and he needs to get some clothes of his own. He doesn’t think anybody even missed him — and there’s no hotel roommate to ask probing questions — until the elevator doors are sliding open, depositing Jihoon onto his floor. And he’s face to face with Soonyoung. 

“Jihoonie,” Soonyoung says, mouth hanging open in his surprise. He’s wearing a white, sleeveless shirt and navy blue swim shorts, matching blue sandals. “Hey.” 

“Hi.” Jihoon regards him shyly, his skateboard in one hand, bag of sweatshirts in the other. “Um. I got you something.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes fall down Jihoon’s body, taking in the pastel pink shirt and rolled-up blue jeans that’s he’s wearing. It’s obviously not his clothes, too big on him. And, besides, Soonyoung knows he didn’t bring any of this, knows it isn’t his. “What have you been up to? You weren’t answering our texts, and when we’d knock on your door no one would respond.” 

Shit. Jihoon forgot all about the group chat; hell, he forgot he even had a phone. He hasn’t looked at it since yesterday. “About that,” Jihoon starts. He extends the bag in his hand to Soonyoung. Again: “I got you something.” 

A blatant dodge of the question, but Soonyoung reluctantly takes the bag from Jihoon’s hands anyway, looks suspiciously at him for a few extra seconds before he opens the bag and glances in. “What is it?” 

“A Thrasher sweatshirt. The orange one.” 

Soonyoung lifts said sweatshirt out of the bag, unfolds it with one hand by shaking it. “Oh,” Soonyoung says. “This is cool.” 

“Right? There’s a store down at the boardwalk that sells all kinds of stuff like this.”

Soonyoung tosses the sweatshirt onto his shoulder, hands Jihoon the bag back. “Whose clothes are you wearing?” 

Jihoon can always count on Soonyoung to get straight to the point. He doesn’t even know how to begin to answer that question. “Um.” He hesitates. “A friend.” It’s the best he can come up with on the spot. And it’s not exactly a lie. 

“A friend,” Soonyoung deadpans. “The skateboard from your friend, too?” He points at it. 

Jihoon looks down at the skateboard hanging from his fingers as if noticing it for the first time. “No,” he says. “I bought it.” 

Soonyoung doesn’t answer right away. Perhaps he also doesn’t know where to take this conversation, considering the obvious fact that Jihoon is providing as few details as possible. “Okay. Well, check in with us once in a while. We were starting to get worried.” 

He’s being reprimanded by a bandmate that isn’t Seungcheol. Soonyoung doesn’t say it in a harsh or angry way, but it feels embarrassing all the same. “Right,” Jihoon says. “I didn’t mean to make you guys worry.”

“No problem,” Soonyoung says as he passes him, a brief hand to Jihoon’s shoulder before it’s gone. “I’ll let the rest know I ran into you. See you later.” 

“Thanks.” 

Jihoon remains where he stands, idle and mind racing, until he hears Soonyoung walk into the elevator and the doors slide closed.


	3. in a dream i can see you crystal clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right,” Hansol says. “Of course it doesn’t feel real to the big-shot idol. You can return to your real life and I’ll still be here, the sales associate of that one store you went to that one time while touring.” He stops talking for a moment, inhales shakily. “Am I a fucking idiot for thinking this was something?” 
> 
> Jihoon can hear the tears in his voice, and, fuck, it hurts. “Please,” he hears himself say. “I don’t want to argue about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 title from Vivid Dreams by Kaytranada. 
> 
> The final chapter! Thanks everyone that took the time to read this - whether you silently read or gave kudos or commented or whatever. I'm just happy that you read, and that you hopefully enjoyed it. Hansol/Jihoon doesn't get enough love, imo, lol. 
> 
> All previous warning apply, but extra heads-up for this chapter: there is a brief joke about incest. I also want to mention that I've sort of deconstructed and rebuilt Seventeen, so there are changes to their dynamic (outside of them being seven instead of thirteen). 
> 
> Thanks again. I'm alicemismatched on Twitter if you ever want to reach me.

He’s still sore from their morning — and the night before — but it’s not bad enough to impede his ability to skate. He’s got a pair of Adidas sneakers on, teetering on his skateboard as Hansol holds him by the small of his back and instructs him on where to put his feet. Again. 

It’s 5 p.m. when they manage to get to the skate park. Hansol had to go to his apartment to get his skateboard, so Jihoon walked with him there and back; Hansol chose the one with a tie dye pattern on it — of course. 

“Perfect,” Hansol says. “Now what you’re gonna do is use the foot that’s behind you to steer. Right. Great.” Once Jihoon gets the hang of moving forward without falling off, Hansol teaches him how to stop and how to make a u-turn. “You’re a fast learner,” Hansol is saying as he watches him, clapping. 

“Years of learning choreographies, maybe,” Jihoon says, preening at the compliment. He becomes acquainted with his skateboard enough to ride without close supervision; and Hansol hops on his own, rolls alongside Jihoon while giving noises and nods of encouragement. 

This feels like a dating simulation, comes Jihoon’s revelation, because it pretty much is. 

A simulation, or. Or, a free trial of what he’s never had. Never had the chance to experience before. No high school crush, because his high school was studying in a stuffy, Pledis office room with the other trainees. No college romance, because instead of going to college, he performed at venues, practiced dancing, singing, recording, composing — day in and day out. And he can’t help the way his heart aches, how he looks around him, at Hansol, at everything he can get his eyes on to make sure he remembers as much of it as possible. How can he already miss someone he’s only known for three days? 

“My little sister, Sophia,” Hansol is saying. “Lives with my parents in Korea. She comes to visit me, like… once or twice a year. Last time she was here we went skateboarding. I ‘dunno. She was the last person I did this with, so it kinda reminds me of her.” 

“You taught her?” Jihoon asks. 

“When we were a lot younger, yeah. She’s way better than me now.”

Jihoon nods, turns to look ahead of him before he trips and falls and pisses off his manager. “The scouting thing you mentioned before. Did she wanna be an idol?” 

“Nah,” he says. “She wants to be a DJ, actually.  _ Hardcore _ into ‘90s house music.” Hansol starts to sway side to side on his board, getting close to Jihoon and then tilting away again. 

Musically-inclined siblings. Of course. “What do your parents think about that?” he probes. “I’m assuming not overjoyed.” 

They get to the end of the walkway and have to make u-turns. “They don’t even really know. Sophia’s way smarter than I am,” Hansol tells him. “She’s still making her mixes and playing for parties ’n stuff, but she told them it’s just a hobby. They wanted her to go to college and get a business degree — so that’s what she’s doing. Playing by their rulebook.” 

“Maybe she learned from you,” Jihoon offers. “She was there to witness the fall out with your parents, yeah?” 

Hansol considers him. “She was... Huh. I guess I  _ was _ the guinea pig.” The two men laugh at this discovery. “Well — that’s fine. If it means she doesn’t make my mistakes, I’m okay.” 

“That’s sweet,” Jihoon says, means it. Then Hansol’s got the signature dopey smile on his face that makes Jihoon want to hop off his skateboard and wipe it away with his mouth. He resists the urge, instead watches his feet as he pushes off. “When I was little I wanted a brother or a sister. The house always felt empty when my parents were at work. I played a shitload of video games to pass the time.” 

Hansol matches Jihoon’s building speed, still swaying, hair blowing every direction. “And look at you now, touring the world with six brothers.” A mischievous tilt twists his smile as he says, “Fucked one of them, too.” 

This spurs Jihoon to fall forward off of his skateboard, his hands swinging up to break his fall; the asphalt burns as it scrapes across his palms. Hansol takes a sharp turn, hops off his own board to run up to him. “Are you okay?” he asks, but he’s laughing uncontrollably while he says it, muddying the concerned tone to his voice. 

Jihoon springs up and grabs Hansol by the collar of his tee shirt, shakes him back and forth, shouts, “Fuck you!” But it’s also said with a laugh, Jihoon’s entire face flushing red, mortified. “I said he was different! Don’t make me regret telling you that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hansol says, gasping for breath between giggles. “ _ Five _ brothers.” He puts his hands up, a silent plea for mercy like Jihoon has a gun to his head. “I just  _ had _ to, though. You set yourself up for that! Admit it!” 

Okay. He sort of did, but he’s not going to let Hansol have the satisfaction. “Whatever,” he says, and he releases his grip on Hansol’s collar. “I was being nice to you, too. You’re such an asshole.” 

Hansol holds Jihoon by his waist, keeps trying to get into Jihoon’s line of vision as Jihoon tries to look away. Jihoon crosses his arms, frowns dramatically. “Hey,” Hansol’s saying. “Hey, hey. Look at me — I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again. Okay?” 

Jihoon maintains the upset charade for a few seconds longer before he eventually turns his head to look up at him. He’s staring at Hansol’s mouth when he says, “You better not,” no bite to it. Hansol, red from the sun, hair disheveled from the breeze, leans in and plants a tender kiss to Jihoon’s lips. 

* * *

On day 5 of 7, Hansol’s got  _ Midsummer Madness _ by 88rising on (“I know it’s cliché to play in the summertime, but. I love it,” he’d said), volume low, as they polish off another dinner of Chinese takeout. He watches silently, chewing on his egg roll, as Jihoon texts his bandmates in the group chat.  _ Another beautiful day in LA _ , he types, sends a picture he took of the skate park yesterday, his feet and skateboard poking up from the bottom. He doesn’t have to wait long before responses pop up on the screen. 

Jeonghan:  _ LA is already rubbing off on you, lol _

Chan:  _ that’s what you’ve been up to??? you got a skateboard??? wow _

Seokmin:  _ Jihoon is made for LA lololol. sweet pic _

“What are they saying?” Hansol asks when he sees Jihoon’s face soften. “Happy to know you’re not kidnapped?” 

Jihoon chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so. One of them said I’m ‘made for LA’.”  _ Whatever that means _ . 

Hansol takes another bite out of the egg roll. “You are,” he says while chewing. “You blend right in.” 

Jihoon wishes he felt the same — but he doesn’t. It’s  _ Hansol _ that he fits in with; the Hansol that happens to be here in Los Angeles. If he hadn’t met him, it would’ve been another foreign city in another foreign country, with its heavy crowds, blistering-hot sun, loud noises and louder people. And Jihoon deals with the crowds because Hansol’s right beside him chatting away; he deals with the sun, because Hansol looks so pretty with wind-blown hair and red cheeks; he deals with not understanding a word anybody is saying because Hansol translates for him when necessary. They could’ve met anywhere at any time, and the conclusion would’ve been the same: Neon Green Beanie Hansol staring straight into his soul through his eyes, fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

Oh, it aches. Physically aches, right in his chest. Jihoon’s staring aimlessly at his phone when he admits to Hansol, “It doesn’t feel real.” 

Hansol puts the remainder of the egg roll into Jihoon’s takeout box, takes a swig from his dingy bottle of water. “What doesn’t? LA?” 

“Any of it,” Jihoon says. “LA… you.  _ This _ .” He waves a hand around at nothing in particular. “I guess. Like, it doesn’t feel real, because it isn’t.” 

Hansol doesn’t answer immediately. He’s sitting on the Color Wheel rug, legs folded, contemplating Jihoon. Then, “How is this not real?” Jihoon can’t pinpoint the emotion conveyed through his question. 

“How  _ is _ it?” Jihoon retorts. His phone screen turns black from sitting idly for too long, and he can see his reflection on it, the frame of the bed behind him. “There is an almost one hundred percent chance that I’ll never see you again. Actually. There  _ is _ a one hundred percent chance that I’ll never see you again.” He takes a shaky breath, chest clamping down tight over his lungs at the idea. “Once I leave, this is gone. Forever. It’d be like I never met you.” 

Jihoon thinks of the age-old question, the  _ if a tree falls in a forest and there’s nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound? _ one. He’s heard a wide range of answers, each different the older he becomes. And now, at 23 years old, the question only brings more questions: does sound exist if no one perceives it? Does reality only exist because it’s perceived to exist? But, then, it’s impossible for there to be one, objective reality; everybody is the center of their own universe, perceives their ‘reality’ in different ways. Which means that there are billions of realities, realities that exist only inside a mind. 

Then, Jihoon thinks, did this week exist if he never returns to it in his lifetime? Does it only exist in his head, where no one can ever see? Will he even remember all the details — Hansol’s dopey smile, the precise tone of his burnt-orange hair, the way he makes him feel so vulnerable when he fucks into him — in a year? Two years? Five? If the memory of this moment in his life, brief as it is, fades away, how can he prove that it occurred? 

“How does that mean it isn’t real, though?” Hansol asks. Now Jihoon can hear the tinge of incredulous frustration. “If it happened, it happened. Things don’t become unreal just because you feel like it is.” 

“ _ Real _ is something we create,” Jihoon says, and he can hear his own tone matching Hansol’s. “We can’t  _ prove _ a memory, because the only place memories exist are inside our minds. Since it’s our creation, we  _ can _ say something wasn’t real if we feel like it wasn’t.”

The only sound that responds to him is the music. As soft as it is, it somehow feels loud in the silence. And it’s getting more difficult for Jihoon to breathe the longer he waits for something. Anything. 

Several seconds pass, and eventually Hansol scoffs, still incredulous. But there’s a new emotion — sadness — and albeit Jihoon refuses to look at him, he can imagine the way Hansol’s face twists. Twists as if Jihoon swung a hammer and broke something inside of him. “This isn’t real to you?” 

Jihoon doesn’t answer the question. He can’t bring himself to say it again. Because it doesn’t feel real, yes, but another part of him is telling him that it doesn’t feel real because he refuses to accept it,  _ make _ it real. He refuses to accept that one day very soon this will all be a memory, a memory that can only fade with time. A memory that he can’t look back on fondly; it’ll only hurt. He’ll be sitting in his studio late at night, and he’ll be thinking of how, once upon a time, he lived in a reality that didn’t belong to him, and he’ll ache. 

But if it’s not real, it can’t hurt him. 

“Right,” Hansol says. “Of course it doesn’t feel real to the big-shot idol. You can return to your  _ real _ life and I’ll still be here, the sales associate of that one store you went to that one time while touring.” He stops talking for a moment, inhales shakily. “Am I a fucking idiot for thinking this was something?” 

Jihoon can hear the tears in his voice, and, fuck, it  _ hurts _ . “Please,” he hears himself say. “I don’t want to argue about this.” 

Another pregnant pause. Hansol, unmoving, tells him, “It’s not an argument if you don’t  _ feel _ like it is. Right?” This seems to spark something inside of him, next to the mess that Jihoon made, and he gets to his feet, fishes his phone out of his pocket. “And — and I don’t exist if you  _ feel _ like I don’t. That’s how it works, right? LA never happened,  _ tour _ never happened — “ He turns off the music, and the sudden switch to silence is daunting. 

“Hansol,” Jihoon tries, falters when he looks up to find a dangerous mixture of anger and sadness clenching Hansol’s jaw tight, darkening his eyes. 

“ — Why don’t you just  _ will _ your memories away, too, since they only exist if you ‘perceive’ them to?” He places great emphasis on  _ perceive _ , makes it louder than all the other words. 

“ —  _ Hansol _ , please — “ 

“I need you to go ahead and leave right now, so I can work on making you not exist inside my mind.” It’s not yet a shout, but it’s close, and it shuts Jihoon up instantly. 

Perhaps it was naive to assume, and Jihoon can take the slack for that, but he didn’t think it was possible, prior to this, for Hansol to get angry. The Hansol of the past 5 days was chill, relaxed, never raised his voice even when Vic was prying into his business, Kelly was being invasive. The Hansol that smiled even through his tears, through his sadness as he relived the story of his broken relationship with his parents. Hansol, that babbled about how  _ incredible _ Jihoon was as he fucked into him, fingered him open. 

“‘Cos if I can’t see you, you’re not real,” Hansol is saying, still teetering on a shout. “Like — like how a fucking baby thinks you disappear if you play fucking  _ peek a boo _ with them. Yeah?  _ Jihoon _ ?” 

The obvious insult stings, reminds him of Chan, reminds him of the numerous arguments they’ve had because he broke character and spoke up. And despite thinking better of it, Jihoon gives in, breaks character, not for the first or the last time. “That’s not fucking fair,” Jihoon hears himself shoot back, outraged. “I never fucking said that. Reality isn’t something you can just  _ explain _ —“ 

“Out!” It’s officially a shout. “I can’t make you not exist in ‘my reality’ if you’re still here, Jihoon,  _ out _ .” 

Jihoon doesn’t get up right away. He looks at Hansol as Hansol looks back at him, looks at how Hansol’s face has turned red — not from a Californian sun, or from pleasure, but from pain. A pain that exists only inside his mind. 

And there, too, is a pain that exists solely in Jihoon, making his heart ache, when he realizes that perhaps a year can’t be squeezed into a week. 

* * *

Turns out he was, indeed, dreaming. Jihoon was in a five-day dream, and he’s awake now, lying supine in his perfectly-made hotel bed, in the quiet of his hotel room. And funnily enough, Jihoon actually  _ can’t _ prove his days with Hansol ever happened; he’s no longer wearing his clothes, they never took any pictures together — fuck, he never even got Hansol’s phone number. There was no need, considering they spent every waking moment together. There’s the skateboard with the palm trees, but it was something Jihoon bought. He has nothing tangible to prove Hansol’s existence. 

Jihoon only manages to sleep for two hours, on and off, before day 6’s morning sun greets him. The first thought that comes to mind, as if picking up where it last left off, is that he’ll be on a plane back to South Korea late tomorrow evening. He squandered day 5’s night because he chose to say something cruel. For a reason that’s so fucking stupid. Fuck. 

Before he has the chance to talk himself out of it, Jihoon’s texting Soonyoung. He may not even be awake, considering it’s a quarter ‘till 8, but Jihoon sends the text anyway, types,  _ can you come to my room? _ Crazy how fast Jihoon got accustomed to always being with somebody. His loneliness, something he once basked in, now feels wrong. 

Turns out Soonyoung is up. And he’s knocking on Jihoon’s door in record time; he hadn’t even  _ responded _ to the text. He’s probably thinking something is gravely wrong with Jihoon; it’s not everyday Jihoon personally seeks him out, and he’s been MIA the entire LA “vacation”. 

“Hey,” Soonyoung says when Jihoon opens the door. His bleach blonde hair is damp, clinging to his face, and he’s wearing another sleeveless tee shirt, this time with jeans. 

“Hey,” Jihoon says. He retreats back into his room, and Soonyoung follows him in. The door shuts heavily behind them. 

Soonyoung watches Jihoon sit on the edge of the hotel bed, stands awkwardly nearby. 

“So,” Jihoon starts. “We aren’t friends anymore.” 

It doesn’t seem to take long for Soonyoung to understand. “Oh.” He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead. “What did you do?” 

The question is said in jest, Jihoon knows, but for some reason it strikes him deep. What  _ did _ he do? Why did he complicate something that should’ve been so easy? His time with Hansol felt  _ surreal _ . A dream that Jihoon was sure he was going to wake up out of any day. The dating simulation that was inevitably going to end. A pretty boy in neon clothes that he’s never going to see again. All too good to be true, aligned too perfectly to be reality. And to escape the pain, he convinced himself that he could stop feeling feelings, that if he tells himself this LA tour hadn’t ever occurred, he’ll somehow be alright. Either way, it’s going to hurt. 

He’s running away, because he’s never liked someone so much before. A year couldn’t have been squeezed into a week; but in a week Jihoon felt more comfortable with Hansol than he has with people he’s known for years. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong in his past life to deserve desiring someone that he can never have. 

Jihoon doesn’t realize he’s crying silent tears until Soonyoung is sitting on the bed beside him, kneading comforting fingers into his shoulder, his upper back. “I didn’t mean that,” he tells him, softly. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head no. There’s no way he can vocalize this to another person. It’ll sound insane. “Just wanted you to know.” He detests how fragile he sounds in his own ears; but if Soonyoung takes notice, he doesn’t show it. “And wanted to ask if you had anything planned for the day.” 

This perks Soonyoung up. Eyes falling into crescent moons, he says, “I didn’t… but now I do.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


If there’s anybody that can lift the mood with his cheerful disposition, it’s Kwon Soonyoung. When it opens, he takes Jihoon to the arcade that he went to with their other bandmates; they glide from machine to machine, blowing whatever’s left of their U.S. money. And maybe it’s because Jihoon’s in an emotional state of mind — he usually isn’t a big crier — but he could cry again, he’s so thankful. Soonyoung knows him well, from the games he likes to play down to even the finest of details: Jihoon’s preferred characters; how he likes to block frequently, so Soonyoung keeps breaking the block with a combo; that when Jihoon’s sad, what he needs is the company of another person. Soonyoung does that for him. 

They — himself, Soonyoung, the rest of Seventeen — have gone through so many changes since they debuted seven years ago. Different concepts, different genres, a new hair color every comeback. They’ve cycled through ten plus managers, Young-hwan being their longest standing one; and they’ve seen so many cities, performed in too many arenas to count. 

More than that, though, is the fact that his members have changed, too. There’s no way they could have gotten away with not doing so. Joshua, once outspoken and exuberant, became docile, subdued. When he was assigned the visual of Seventeen, it was hammered into him that his primary goal is to look pretty. Pretty boys don’t talk too much, pretty boys smile gently at cameras, they interject only when necessary. 

And Seokmin has to be more than just the lead vocalist. He has to stand out somehow, capture the attention of potential fans. That came in the form of being the other half of the comedic relief duo, Soonyoung the other one; his time to shine isn’t only on the stage, but also in variety shows, interviews, vlogs, whatever. And it’s not like Seokmin wasn’t a naturally funny person initially — the ‘problem’ was that he wasn’t funny  _ enough _ . Not outspoken enough. 

Of course, Seungcheol changed. He had to. When he became the leader, he had to be the group’s rock. He has to be the person that irons out all the wrinkles, patches up the holes so that they could be one, cohesive group. Jeonghan, similarly to Seungcheol, becomes the pseudo-leader when Seungcheol isn’t around or otherwise unable to. Teenagers leading teenagers. They grew up too fast. 

Chan, fitting nowhere, was left in purgatory. Jihoon thinks this is why he’s become so irritable and withdrawn over the years; he isn’t the visual, he wasn’t designated the lead dancer, lead vocalist, comedic relief, nothing. And it isn’t that he isn’t talented or handsome — he and Soonyoung collaborate on their choreographies — it was that all the “roles” had already been filled. If he wants the spotlight, he’s going to have to fight for it. 

Then. Yes, Soonyoung’s changed, but not dramatically. In fact, if Jihoon isn’t looking too hard, he’ll miss it. The company didn’t have precise goals for Soonyoung outside of helping to make Seventeen’s choreographies pristine. That, and keeping himself in shape so his dancing could improve. Soonyoung, Jihoon has realized, is his rock. When Jihoon feels like he doesn’t know who he is, or who his other members are, Soonyoung grounds him. He can always find that same glint of determination in Soonyoung’s eyes — the glint he saw when they met as trainees for the first time. 

It goes without saying: Jihoon’s definitely not the same kid he was at 16, pre-debut. Hell, he’s not the same person he was at 20, or  _ yesterday _ . He feels as if he’s carrying the band’s key to success on his shoulders, has been since the very beginning. It makes him an empty husk at times — angry and scared, too. He wasn’t lying when he told Hansol he lives for Seventeen. He’s lived for other people for so long that sometimes he forgets that there’s another world out there —  _ here _ — where he isn’t being controlled, timed, depended on. 

“Here’s the last of it,” Soonyoung is saying, shoving a couple of quarters into the Tekken arcade game. “Your final chance to kick my ass.”

Jihoon tuts at him, says, “I’ll be kicking your ass alright.” 

* * *

In the evening, they go to the beach. Soonyoung is trying to build a sand castle near the shore, blurting expletives every time it falls; and Jihoon, staring off at the seemingly endless expanse of sand, hallucinates Hansol sitting beside him, burnt-orange waves, red cheeks, eyes that bore into his soul.  _ I’m happy I got to meet you _ , he’d said, right here, on this same beach, his hand on Jihoon’s knee. 

* * *

Jihoon wakes up at 5 a.m. that morning, on day 7, and slides out of bed. He groggily fishes through his backpack and pulls out his journal, goes to the table by the picture windows and sits down. Opening to a fresh page, he unhooks the pen that’s attached to the cover. 

The hotel’s air conditioning hums to life above him. Below, there’s the distant rumble of a truck’s engine. 

_ As if nothing happened _ , he writes on the first line.  _ I told myself this is all a dream _ . 

* * *

Young-hwan, a stickler for punctuality, has the band pack their belongings up and deliver them to the van before they get a chance to eat breakfast. Then, he gathers the men in front of the trunk, looks between each tired face as he says, “Just because our flight is at 6 p.m. doesn’t mean you guys can wander around Venice beach all day. We have to be in the van and driving to the airport by 3 p.m.” He shoots Jeonghan a look. “And that doesn’t mean ‘be here by 3 p.m.’, that means you need to be in the van and ready to  _ go _ at 3 p.m.” 

Jeonghan, smirking, crosses his arms and looks down at his feet. 

“Keep your phones on you, please,” Young-hwan continues. “I need to be able to reach you at all times.” 

Chan side-eyes Jihoon, who is squinting off into the distance. “You hear that, Woozi?” Jihoon knows the use of his stage name — with no honorific — is supposed to upset him, but he, wrung-out, feels nothing. 

Seungcheol shoves an elbow into Chan’s arm, and Chan shies away, wincing. “Show some respect,” he says. “It’s too early to be picking fights.” 

“I’m just saying, hyung,” Chan tries. “He’s the only one that’s been unreachable all week.” 

Young-hwan regards Jihoon. “He’s right,” he says. “I need you to take your phone off silent, Jihoon. If I don’t hear from you by 2 p.m. I’m going to be very upset.” 

Jihoon nods silently, eyes remaining trained on something far away. 

“Can we eat now?” Soonyoung whines, using a hand to block the sun from his face. “I’m hungry and it’s hot out here.” 

“Yeah. Go on and eat. Jihoon, ringer on.” Then Young-hwan is speed dialing a number and putting his phone to his ear, walks off as Seventeen disperses. 

Soonyoung sits with him after they retrieve their food from the hotel’s breakfast buffet. Jihoon’s preoccupied with shoving his undercooked scrambled eggs around his plate when Soonyoung asks, shifting his chair closer, “Are you ready to go home?” 

Jihoon knows it’s a question that’s specifically for him. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’ve been ready since our first concert.” 

Soonyoung absorbs this answer, nods slowly. “Crazy how it’s all over,” he says. “Our tour through the states. I wonder if we’ll ever come back here to perform.” 

“I don’t think it’s going to be for a long time, if we do,” Jihoon says to his eggs. His stomach twists, feels like he can throw up. “We’re mostly gonna be between Japan and Korea. They buy the most seats.” 

Soonyoung hums. He takes a few bites of his cereal, looking around the dining hall at the other guests, his bandmates. “Well,” he says around a mouthful of cheerios. “That’s good, in a way.” 

Jihoon glances at Soonyoung. Humoring him, since he knows Soonyoung wants him to pry, asks, “How?” 

“It doesn’t matter what you do,” Soonyoung says. “Even if it’s embarrassing…. or reckless or whatever — outside of illegal stuff, of course. Whatever you do will stay here forever.” 

Jihoon falls quiet, stops playing with his eggs. Yesterday, Soonyoung’s words would’ve harmed him. Strike him right through his heart, the reminder that everything he’s done here, in LA, isn’t going to follow him back home. It’ll only be a memory, one that fades with time, the intricate details forgotten. Today, it still hurts, but in an ache. A previous injury that Soonyoung mistakenly steps on. One that Jihoon has to nurse to health, but it’s not as deep as the first time. Doesn’t hurt as bad. 

Despite it all, he wants to be able to look back fondly on the week he roamed the streets of Venice beach, Los Angeles. Sure, in a few months — a few years — he may not remember the  _ exact _ way the skate shop was arranged, or  _ exactly _ where Vic’s tattoos are on her body, what they were. He won’t remember how the hippie’s wet-dream apartment is decorated, what plants they had on the kitchen counters, what colors the bean bags were in Hansol’s bedroom. 

And — Hansol. He’ll lose his memory of every song Hansol’s played, even though Hansol always said aloud what they were; he’s not going to be able to pick out Hansol’s hair color, even if he’s given a list of different hues of orange. The things he feared — when he and Hansol spoke for the last time — he still fears. But he wants to stop being afraid, stop letting it ruin what could’ve been a beautiful story. 

If nothing else, he owes Hansol beautiful memories. Because while Jihoon will leave for South Korea, absolutely nothing on his person to commemorate their summer love, Hansol will continue to see the phantom of Jihoon. The bean bag he sat on, the white duvet and bed sheets they made love on; the place Jihoon stood in the skate shop, looking at Hansol as Hansol looked at him, hands around his wrist. 

And Jihoon, too, can feel Hansol’s phantom touch, right there on the small of his back, rubbing those comforting little circles. 

* * *

Hansol’s working the floor of the skate shop when Jihoon walks in. Of course. Life doesn’t stop because you get your heart broken. And his pain doesn’t not exist if Jihoon isn’t there to see it. 

Vic is at the cash register, says, “Welcome in,” too busy fussing with some shoe boxes to look up. And Hansol is by a crowded rack of graphic tees near the front, trying to straighten out the hangers; he’s wearing a yellow sweatshirt with pink donuts all over it, black shorts, all white Vans. There’s no hat on his head today, his hair back to the messy look that works for him. His face is stone-cold, lips pulled in a straight line. 

Jihoon stares dumbly until Hansol’s eyes flicker up from where he’s untangling a shirt from around the hook of a hanger. Then he does a double-take, hands freezing, when he realizes that it’s Jihoon. Waves of hair flops down, covers an eye. 

There’s an awkward stand off before Hansol seems to make up his mind; looking back down at the hangers, he says, in English, “If there’s anything I can help you with just let me know.” 

This gets Vic’s attention. She looks between the two, confused, before she says, “Vernon. That’s lover boy. Non-English speaker.” He doesn’t even bother to look at or respond to her. A flicker of recognition crosses her face. “Oh. Okay. Nevermind.” 

“It’s okay,” Jihoon says. “I deserve this, I know. I said some really fucked up shit to you.” The tears are already beginning to prick his eyes, but he blinks them away. This isn’t about him — not completely, anyway. He has the luxury of leaving LA behind him indefinitely, but Hansol doesn’t. And if the roles were switched — Hansol in Jihoon’s bed, sprawled across  _ his _ studio couch, in  _ his _ space — he’d be just as crushed if Hansol looked him in the eyes and told him that none of it was real. 

“All shoes are buy one get one free until Sunday,” Hansol says to the hangers, still in English. “Shoes already on clearance don’t apply to the discount.” Jihoon can barely make sense of what he’s saying, of course, but what he can hear is the way his voice quivers in places, the persona coming undone.

“What I should’ve said,” Jihoon pushes on. He can hear his own voice starting to quiver, and he swallows hard before he speaks again. “Is that it didn’t feel real, because it was, like… too good to be true. And, I — I never experienced something like this before. I always fantasized about it. Choosing who I get to be with, not bein — “ He cracks, tears coming loose, and he pauses to cover his face with one hand, the other holding it up by the elbow. “Sorry.” 

Hansol is still staring at the hangers, but he’s yet to move. His dark brown eyebrows are furrowed, lips a flat line. Vic quietly moves from around the cash register and heads to the back. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Jihoon whimpers. “Really fucking bad. And I didn’t want it to hurt this bad. That’s why I — it’s  _ no _ excuse, I know — I acted like I could pretend, like. I said shit that wasn’t true.” 

The only response Jihoon gets is Hansol closing his eyes. 

Jihoon wipes at his face, his cheeks, takes a moment to breathe. “Hansol — I am so sorry. I’ll remember this forever, I know I will; I can’t fucking  _ will _ it away.” And it won’t be perfect, details will become hazy, but it’ll still be Hansol, LA. 

Again — nothing. 

That’s okay. Jihoon can take the rejection, expected it. As Soonyoung said earlier that morning: even if it’s awkward, even if it’s reckless, it’ll remain here. Forever. “I hurt you trying to protect myself,” Jihoon falls to a whisper. He knows Hansol can hear him regardless. “Selfish as fuck. Didn’t work. Now we’re both hurting.” It comes out in spurts, quivers. 

He doesn’t expect it when Hansol speaks, jumps at the sound of his voice. “We fit a year into a week,” he says, now in Korean. An unkind laugh, only a brief sound, escapes him. “The honeymoon phase, the argument, the breakup. You got what you wanted, Jihoon. Now you get to go home. Congrats.” 

Jihoon has to look down at his sandals from how bad that stings him. “Okay,” he croaks, sounding wrecked. “It’s okay. Bye.” 

He turns to leave, shoves the door open with all his strength as he walks back into the sweltering, California sun. 

* * *

The van ride to the airport is quiet. No one speaks a single word, pointedly looking every and anywhere other than at Jihoon, who is leaning against the window with the visor of his hat shielding his eyes, his entire face flushed pink, crying silently. Young-hwan has the radio on, an attempt to fill the silence with more than just Jihoon’s intermittent sniffles. 

When they get to their gate, the men hop out of the van one by one; Jihoon keeps his visor low, over his eyes, as he steps out, stands uselessly by the open trunk as his bandmates grab their luggage. Soonyoung gets his and Jihoon’s bags and goes to stand by the automatic doors quietly, waiting for the others. Jihoon follows him. 

He doesn’t have to ask for or mime it — Soonyoung drops a bag to wrap Jihoon in his arm, tugs him so he can hide his face in Soonyoung’s shoulder. 

* * *

Jihoon’s studio is exactly as he left it: clean, dark, with a purple glow. He locks himself in, goes to sit at his computer. He doesn’t put on any music, just leans back in his office chair and closes his eyes, listens to himself breathing. 

There it is. His fears materializing. The him, sitting in his studio late at night, thinking of how, once upon a time, he lived in a reality that didn’t belong to him. And, fuck, does it ache. 

Yet. 

Yet he ponders, if the argument had never happened, if he and Hansol spent those final two days wrapped up in one another, which reality would’ve hurt more. This one, where he fucks everything up, gets rejected, and leaves; or the one where they embrace, they cry, and Hansol sees him off? It’s useless to ruminate over, Jihoon knows that, but he’s always been an expert at finding new, creative ways to self-harm. 

He hurts so good, because he knows he deserved it. Hurts so bad, because he knows the one that will suffer the most is Hansol. 

* * *

Jihoon discovers it by happenstance. They’re in the dance studio, sitting on the floor by the mirrors and watching as Soonyoung demonstrates the killing part for their upcoming comeback. He’s groggy from being up all night in the studio with Beom-ju, barely paying attention as he fiddles with his phone. 

It’s been three months since their American tour. Jihoon spent those three months thrusting himself full throttle into work: composing, dance practice, voice training. As if coming back to themselves, everyone resumed life — whatever life that was afforded to them. 

And. Seventeen has been restricted from posting on their Instagram accounts for years at this point; but Jihoon still uses his account to correspond with other idols via direct messages. Not sexually — that’s for his private Instagram — but for friendly conversations. “You have to do the arm waves twice as fast here,” Soonyoung is explaining, sweat dripping down his temples as he demonstrates. “Because if not, you’re going to fall out of rhythm with everyone else, and it’s going to be obvious onstage.” 

Jihoon glances up to watch, immediately gets distracted when his phone lights up, a DM from a Monsta X member on the screen. He, hiding his phone behind his legs when he pulls his knees up, taps open the app. Despite it being years since he stopped uploading, he still gets a steady stream of comments from fans; and while normally he doesn’t bother to read them, a word from one catches his attention —  _ Kaytranada _ . He sounds the English word out in his head. Kay-tra-na-da. Then, there’s more comments from the same account, all song names and artists, and Jihoon can feel his heart jump into his throat when he sees the username:  _ oneweekhanso1 _ . 

It’s a throwaway account, 0 posts, 0 followers. Of course. 

The final comment from oneweekhanso1 reads, in Korean:  _ a playlist, for when youre missing someone you once knew _ .  _ woozi, huh _ ? 

He bites back a stupidly dopey smile, pulls his hoodie over his head and ducks down to conceal his face. There it is, of course — of fucking  _ course _ — in the form of music: the first and only proof that Hansol does, in fact, exist in more places than inside Jihoon’s mind. 

“Jihoonie,” Soonyoung is saying with his hands on his hips, a playful tilt to his voice. He’s dripping in sweat, a damp spot across the front of his shirt. “Would you mind sharing what’s so funny with the class?” 

* * *


End file.
